


Derelict Soul

by Adria_Teksuni



Category: The Dresden Files - All Media Types, The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: F/M, dresdenfiles - Freeform, thedresdenfiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 18:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 108,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3660504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adria_Teksuni/pseuds/Adria_Teksuni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Dresden is a private investigator. And a wizard. And a few other things. When a tall, cool blonde walks into his office one day he figures it's business as usual. </p>
<p>But when is a wizard's business ever usual? </p>
<p>This takes place between books Turn Coat and Changes.</p>
<p>Varya Nadeanenko, Dmitri Ilyvich, Father Ilya Gavril, their history, and their likenesses are licensed and owned by CA Jarrett and her proxies.</p>
<p>All other characters, their likenesses, devices, and histories are licensed and owned by Jim Butcher and his proxies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Update - Proofed and Edited. Final draft.

# Chapter One

One of the very, very few good things about my job is the eye candy.

Granted, most of that eye candy is the colorful crunchy shell hiding the incredibly nasty evil ick beneath just waiting to subvert me, feed off me, or kill me, but it's still nice to look at.

It's even better when they offer to pay me.

No, not for that. Get your mind out of the gutter. It's crowding mine.

When she walked into my office I had begun having thoughts about locking up and going home. She stopped those thoughts like a certain kind of brick house. The drab little affair with the worn out desk, battered coffeepot, and sad filing cabinets sagging against each other got a little brighter. Not an actual glowy thing, it was a metaphorical banishing of shadows. 

I feel I should clarify, as the non-metaphorical was always a possibility. No, she was the proverbial breath of fresh air.

She was tall, which for me is saying something. I guessed her height to be six foot or six one, which would still leave me looking down at her if I were to stand next to her. I snuck a peek. Her height wasn't increased by heels, she was wearing sensible, but somewhat stylish, grey ballet flats. 

Platinum blond hair, which looked natural, bound up in a sleek style into a bun at her crown. The pearl grey business suit she wore fit her nicely. Instead of a skirt, she wore wide-legged trousers, and the jacket hit her mid-thigh. She wore a cream colored silk shirt beneath it, modestly buttoned. It wasn't exquisitely tailored or designed to showcase features, but it looked nice, mid-range expensive. 

The features were there if she chose to display them. The suit could not camouflage the curves that belonged to another century; impressive…er…bosom, tiny waste, flaring hips. Not quite a Rubens. 

The face was all of a piece. Wide, crystal blue eyes fringed with snowy lashes, full lips, high cheekbones, pale skin. She looked to be about my age, but she had that timeless quality some women do, which made it hard to be more specific.

No jewelry, and it didn't look like her ears were even pierced. No accessories either, like a scarf or something. If she was wearing makeup, it was so light I couldn't see it.

She shut the door behind her and I revised my initial evaluation. A refreshing breath of air, but a frigid one. Bracing, but remote. She was also perfectly composed, which was unusual. Most people who come to see me, if they're, y'know, actually _people_ , are riding the high edge of anxiety. 

I was a private investigator, and one with a perfectly unique method of advertising so far as I knew. At least in Chicago. Someone had copied the idea for themselves in Los Angeles, but I didn’t begrudge them. I specialized in finding things. Or at least I tried to. My life is…complicated.

I wasn't something the dogs howled at—well, maybe I was, now. Six foot six, with shaggy brown hair in dire need of a cut. Having someone cut my hair was always something I had to steel myself for. Hazard of the job. But at least I was clean shaven today.

My mug could be called austere, with stubborn square jaw, and a bit of the cheekbone thing going on myself. They weren't the razor-edged planes they could be when I was hurt, exhausted, or on the edge, which happened with disconcerting regularity. I'd had a few months of relative quiet, and the rest had done a lot to restore my dashing good looks. Or at least make it so I didn't look so much like Bela Lugosi. In full makeup. On a very bad day.

Of course, now I wore badges of honor on my face that I would have preferred getting a medal for instead; a lot of nicks from all kinds of interesting shrapnel. My left hand also bore evidence of my exciting, thrilling past. It no longer looked like something out of a Hellbound movie, but it still wasn't pretty. I wore a black leather glove over it. Severe scars from massive burn trauma that leave the docs wanting to amputate tend to linger. I had kept the hand. 

My hand. Not yours. You can't has.

My white with blue stripes button down shirt and black trousers covered a good many more souvenirs of my wide and varied travels.

I tried to convince myself they were more Indiana Jones than Leatherface. Chicks dig scars, right?

Right?

"Mister Dresden?" she inquired. Her voice was lower than Ithought it would be, a pleasant, bell toned alto.

"That's me," I said with a practiced, reassuring smile, gesturing to the rickety wooden office chair in front of my desk. A relic of days gone by, at least it was clean. I was used to clients giving my office a supercilious eye, but she just took it all in stride as she crossed over and took the seat, one of those leather attaché cases in her lap.

"How can I help you, miss—?"

"Nadeanenko. Varya Nadeanenko." I could hear now the faintest accent. It was the kind of accent where it sounded like she was tasting the words, rolling them around in her mouth before speaking them, giving her an odd cadence. Bai Ling with a Russian lilt. It was vaguely erotic. "I would like to hire you to find someone."

"Of course," I said, grabbing up a legal pad and a pencil. "Can you give me the details?"

"His name is Dimitri Ilyvich. It is very important I locate him. He is six foot five, the last time I saw him he looked to weigh around two-hundred-sixty pounds. Muscular build, not overweight. Brown hair, brown eyes. Classically handsome. He has a long, thin scar across his throat, over his clavicle." She rattled off the facts in the iciest damned manner I'd seen. Except from a Valkyrie I knew.

So…not pining for him. Probably not a boyfriend or husband…She wasn't acting like a woman scorned, either. That left possibilities my mind explored in a definitive nonprofessional manner.

Down boy, she's a client. And probably cousins with what sank the Titanic.

I grunted, scribbling down notes. "And what is his relationship to you? Family?"

A hint of…sad revulsion washed over her cool features. I nearly missed it, catching it as I happened to glance up at her from jotting down the information. It was one of the weirdest expressions I'd ever seen.

Oh. Goody. A story. 

Which she did not choose to share at this time. I sincerely hoped it would not become relevant. 

Hope springs eternal, after all. No matter how useless you know it is, hope refuses to back down. It's a stubborn little snot.

"He is known as a business entrepreneur and philanthropist, and likes to move in those circles, and he had begun to dabble in politics."

"He sounds like kind of a big gun, Ms. Nadeanenko. Wouldn't he have people looking for him?"

"Please, call me Varya," she said, I nodded and she continued. "He…likes to reinvent himself every so often. He escapes and takes up a new name, a new identity, and starts rebuilding his empire from scratch."

"And you think he's in Chicago?"

She paused for a moment. "Before we continue, I must have your assurance that you will adhere to my request to the letter."

"I always abide by what my client wants," I said, brow wrinkling. That was mostly true. I didn't think lightning would strike me for saying it, anyway.

"This is imperative. I just want you to find him. Discretely. He must not know you are looking for him. If you do find him, you absolutely must not make contact. Under any circumstances. If he discovers you, you are to break off the investigation immediately."

She didn't want to spook him. I gave a mental shrug. M'kay. No biggie.

"If that's your wish, then that's what the contract will say, and I'll stick to it," I said reassuringly. "Chicago?"

"Chicago. I managed to trace him here and then his trail just…ends. The last known location I have for him is a gala held by a local businessman a few weeks ago."

"Do you know the businessman?"

"A Mr. John Marcone."

My gut clenched. Gentleman Johnny Marcone. Excuse me, _Baron_ John Marcone. He was a businessman, all right. The business that had made Chicago so notorious for so long. He ran the organized crime for Chicago and all of the Great Lakes region. He was a reptile in human skin. Not literally. He would have been easier to deal with if it were literal. I'd had to work with him before. Hell, he was where he was because I helped put him there. And in a few other places he shouldn't have been, to boot.

Don't ask. It had been a day full of nothing but bad choices. 

Was big bad Harry Dresden afraid of little old vanilla Johnny Marcone?

Damn skippy I was. Grandpa Dresden didn't raise no fools.

But that wasn't why my advice to her was probably going to rob me of a retainer I desperately needed.

"This might be better handled by the police," I told her. I tried to be gentle, but if he was involved with Marcone, I was pretty sure I knew what happened to him and where to find him. Vaguely. But I didn't want to troll Lake Michigan to get the specific location.

She shook her head. "No, Mr. Dresden—"

"Harry."

"Harry. I can't go to the police."

They never could.

"They have resources I don't, Varya," I explained, trying for compassionate. No reason to be brutal in turning her down. If he were mixed up with Marcone, then in all likelihood he was no longer among the living. "They would be able to put a lot more towards finding him."

"You misunderstand. It's not that I won't go to the police. I can't."

"Kidnapping? Have they demanded you not contact the authorities?"

"No. Mr. Dresden—Harry, your advertisement said you were a wizard." She said it like 'ad-verr-tiss-ment'. It was kinda sexy. "That is why I need to hire you. Dimitri Ilyvich is a powerful demon."

  


 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After realizing that Varya Nadeanenko actually believes he's a wizard, and he's expected to track down an archdemon, he learns a little more about the specifics, cuz, y'know, specifics are important.
> 
> Update - Proofed and edited. Final draft.

# Chapter Two

I think I gaped. I may have even gawped a little. 

She just kept looking at me with those cool blue eyes. 

It wasn't the fact that the guy she was looking for was a demon, not entirely. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the people who come to me consider me a desperate hail Mary, a last resort. That was due to the fact they all thought I was a lunatic because I had "Harry Dresden, Wizard" on my shingle. Even after I had found whatever it was they'd wanted found, they disappeared and did their very best to forget my existence after they sent the final check.

That's human nature. We don't want to think about that primal fear that grips us in the night, when silence has fallen and the world is still. We don't want to think about when we hear what bumps in the night, curled into a ball beneath our bedroom covers. We want the sunshine and the rational and the _normal_. I reminded people that things weren't normal. They don't like that so they dip their toe in to my world and then haul ass back to Denial Land as fast as they can go. I was used to it.

I was so used to it a few little alarms began ringing.

But she just kept looking at me. It was obvious she completely believed that if the gumshoe said he was a wizard, then he was a wizard. 

"You're a wizard, Harry," she said. 

She did _not_ just…another micro-expression I nearly missed flashed over her features. A slight crinkling at the corners of her eyes, the barest twitch at the corner of those luscious lips. She knew exactly what she had said. 

Hey, pop culture references were _my_ shtick. 

But the reference was yet another mystery to wrap around the enigma. I had thought she was devoid of a sense of humor. A very repressed type of individual. Or someone hiding their true nature.

That was when I heard the click.

You know, the click. When you encounter a kindred spirit. You meet, share a moment, and then…click. I heard it. Felt it, more likely. 

What the hell? I don’t click. I use special standoff-go away-don't get near me lubricant to keep from clicking.

"That is why it has to be you," she added.

My brain finally ground into gear. I could smell the clutch burning.

"Varya, if he is a demon," I began, leaning forward. My legal pad bumped the calendar lying flat on my desk, one of those huge affairs that you could use as a doormat in a pinch. It slid forward and knocked a pencil holder off my desk in front of her, spilling the contents on the floor. "Dammit—" I grunted, getting to my feet.

She leaned down and reached for the objects, a matching steel pen and pencil set, a letter opener, somepaper clips, half dozen thumbtacks. Picking up the holder, she slid them back in and placed it back on my desk.

The light in her eye told me that she knew exactly what I had just done.

"Sorry," I said, not sorry at all. "But when someone who looks like you walks in here, I can't take any chances." 

It wouldn't have been the first time a fairy in disguise had come to visit me. I'd learned to be careful. She didn't have that air, but the fae were damned clever, damned good at hiding their nature, and damned scary. But she had tolerated the touch of steel and cold iron without adverse effect, so that definitely ruled out a denizen of the Nevernever.

The adverse effect being flames and melting flesh. It's kinda hard to miss. Cold iron was fairy thermite.

"I understand."

No response on the "someone who looks like you"? I have never, ever met an individual of the female persuasion who wouldn’t have reacted to that in some way. Coyness, outrage, flirtation, indignance, bemusement…something. She hadn't even batted an eye.

I just could not get a read on this one. But instead of wary, I was intrigued. Not so intrigued I wouldn't act with caution, however.

Sitting back down, I rested my arms in my lap so they were hidden behind my desk. Reaching out with my wizard senses I felt around for anything out of the ordinary. 

Nope. Nada. Nothing. Zilch. She felt as vanilla as they came. No enchanted objects, no wards, nothing that I could sense, anyway. 

Wait…

The barest tingle came from her attaché case. It was muffled, shrouded. I never would have sensed it if I hadn't been looking so hard.

But that slight _frisson_ caused a minor outbreak of goose pimples on my forearms.

"Before we continue, would you like to show me what's in the bag?" Surreptitiously, I shook my shield bracelet out from the cuff of the shirt, and began filling it with my will. I didn't put it up just yet, but it would be ready.

She undid the clasp on the front of the cordovan leather back and reached inside, pulling out a folded square of cloth, about the size of one of those little plastic bags they ship jewelry in. The cloth was…disgusting, actually. A plain piece of rough spun brown wool, now covered in black stains, ragged fibers straggling out in every direction, tied with a length of twine that looked like it had been pulled out of a rope.

"You might want this opened inside a protection of some sort. A circle I think they're called?" she told me, holding the tiny little packet in her hand.

"With me in there with it? Forget it, you haven't even paid me a retainer yet. Definitely need a retainer to lock myself inside with what could be the magical equivalent of Ebola meets Hannibal Lecter."

That wash of dry humor again. This time, I was looking for it and saw that she didn’t just smooth it away. It was like she had forced it down, refusing to acknowledge it.

Man. I had a hard time being entertaining for people who _wanted_ to laugh. This was going to be tough.

"No, put the circle around me. I will open it."

I considered, looking for the angle. I wasn't getting any bad vibes from her, but it wouldn’t be the first time I had been deceived. And I was a sucker for a pretty face. Near goddesses like her left my defenses in shambles. 

But my instincts were quiet, so I nodded and got out the little bag of purified sand, sometimes called sugar sand for its whiteness and fineness, and poured it in a little circle around her as she sat in the chair. As I passed behind her, leaned low to make sure the sand was in a thin line, I caught a whiff of her scent. It was lightly floral, crisp and pure. The image of an alpine field of tiny white flowers floated through my head.

It was not unpleasant. It made me want to slowly brush my fingers against her hair, loosen the severe style to see how far it tumbled down her shoulders, her back. I wanted to see how it would frame her face, and how it would rest against the smooth white slope of her neck. It wasn't an overwhelming sensation, no powerful compulsion messing with my head and hormones. It was a very natural reaction for a healthy male who hadn't gotten any for a while who was close to a beautiful woman. I'd had enough double dirty nookie mojo slammed down on me to know the difference. 

So, I made my way around the chair, stoically ignoring my baser urges. I was, sadly, very good at that. As I emerged in front of her again, I saw she seemed not to have noticed the affect she was having on me, just watching me with those cool, clear eyes.

Which, I finally realized, never came near to meeting mine. They were always focused on my chin, or my nose, or my mouth. This wasn't any out of shyness. When someone looked into the eyes of a wizard, interesting things happened. Things that were rarely good for either party involved. Another thing I was used to. I hadn't been around normal in a while. It had taken this long for me to make that realization. 

The people in my life knew the risk of eye contact, and avoided it assiduously.

I reconsidered my no hand-shaking policy. Unlike most guys in business, who greeted clients with a firm, hearty handshake, I had designed a simple greeting, the smile and the chair, that didn't involve actual touch. At least until I had something of their measure. But if I had touched her, I would have been able to feel if she was a practitioner, like me. It was a risk I'd known and accepted when I'd decided on no touchy, but it would have been nice to know in this instance.

Allowing me to put her in a circle was another bid for my trust, and it was pretty freaking effective. She was obviously informed at least a little about my world. She knew that any circle I put around her would cut her off from any source of power, any outside influence. Granted, if she was a practitioner, she would have a limited amount of personal resources to pull from, but I was willing to bet that I would be able to do a lot of harm while she exhausted them.

I was good at that. The harm part. It's a gift.

While she'd be protected from any incoming energy, and I'd be protected from any outgoing, it wouldn’t stop me from, say, tackling her out of the chair, or slugging her across that sculptured jaw.

Of course I wouldn't, but just as an example.

She was a girl. I don't hit girls. Yeah, yeah, misogynistic archaic fossil, blah blah blah. So sue me. I still opened doors and pulled out chairs, too.

Bending over, I touched the completed circle with a finger and sent a surge of will into it. I felt the magical energies snap closed around her. The slight sense of ugh I felt from the bundle was cut off.

I paused, but she just kept looking at me.

"It's up," I told her, sitting on the edge of my desk.

So either she didn't feel it, or she didn't want me to know she did.

She nodded and with slender fingers, unwrapped the package. Against the bedraggled brown wool lay a darker swatch of something. I had to lean forward to get a better look.

It was hair. A lock of brown hair. The shade was so close to my own an ugly shiver wriggled down my spine. It wasn't a tidy little clipping, either. It was a tangled mass. This hair had not been cut from the head of its owner. It had been ripped out. As I concentrated on it, I could see the little white bulbous ends of follicle.

"This is his."

"This is his human host's?"

"Yes…it is his…it's complicated."

"Of course it is. Which demon?"

"Czernobog."

I let out a low whistle. Czernobog was ancient. Like, before Christ ancient. He'd been maiming and pillaging through the Russian steppes in one guise or another before he got roped into the whole archdemon thing. Most of the legendary baddies, and goodies, had gotten co-opted when Catholicism had owned most of Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. A hostile takeover of the occult corporations of the time. 

Fun fact: the huge, mountain shaking, evilly laughing, glowing nastybad in Disney's Fantasia was based on him. He was the original cloven hoofed, behorned, betailed devil template. Which was kind of ironic, because he wasn't a devil, he was a demon, but whatever.

But I had a few divine sources of my own, and one even professed to like me. If there was an archdemon prowling around my beat, why hadn't I gotten some sort of word? I wasn't asking for chariots of fire, but I hadn't even gotten a smoldering twig, much less a burning bush.

The Paranet and other supernatural groups in the city had been quiet, as well. I figured a big baddie waltzes into town and all kinds of alarms would be going up. 

While I was concerned, I didn't have the paralyzing terror one might expect when confronted with the idea that I would be hounding an archdemon who apparently didn't want to be found. But hey, I'd taken on Fallen, old gods, and a shapeshifting mass of pure evil—a wash of mind-numbing, world-shaking horror washed over me, I ignored it. I happened every time I thought about the naagloshii. 

It's really odd what we can get used to as human beings.

The point was that of course the archdemon wasn't something I was going to call out to a duel at high noon (although that would be pretty awesome) but it wasn't going to set me gibbering, either.

"That's why you were telling me that under no circumstances was I to let him know I was looking for him, or otherwise come into contact."

Another nod. "You cannot defeat him."

"I've been told that before."

"This time it is true. He is all but invulnerable."

"All but?"

"Yes. He has a single weakness."

"And that is?"

"I don’t think I should share that information at this time."

I mulled that for a minute. It made sense. If I flipped, this secret weakness could possibly be defended against. Or put me in danger. Six of one. Uber-powerful immortals got testy when they thought someone had figured out a way to kill them. I didn't push.

I had a secret or two like that myself.

"What is the cloth?"

"It's a scrap from a pious man's cassock, the twine from his belt."

I nodded. A cassock was something worn by priests. Faith was a nebulous and extremely powerful force. I'd had to use it myself on occasion, to ward off the odd vampire. But it wasn't something I could use all the time. And my faith was not in any of the traditional religions. Or even non-traditional ones. It wasn't even a religion.

But I'd worked with those who had that kind of faith, and it was always humbling.

"How did you get that?"

"I know the one who tore it from his scalp. I thought it might be useful if I could not track him through my own means."

"It might still be viable…" It was one of the reasons I was so paranoid about getting my hair cut. Hair, finger nails, saliva, blood…to someone in the know, they were very, very potent weapons. A lot of damage could be done with the renewable body bits. Like tracking you, or making your heart explode out of your ribcage.

Not fun things.

"And you just want me to use it to find him?"

"Yes. This is not your fight, Harry."

"It's yours?"

Another sigh of emotion escaped the icy shield she'd surrounded herself with. This one was a lot more complex than the previous ones. "Yes."

That sealed it for me. I had been teetering on the edge of not accepting it. Like I'd said, the last few months had been…well, peaceful for me. On the local front, nothing more than a few angry trolls duking it out with some gruffs under Michigan Avenue Bridge and one delusional young wannabe necromancer had shown up on the wizarding front. I liked it. Peace was rare and to be protected, coveted. 

And this business seemed like it could get pretty unpeaceful pretty quick. Enigmatic, beautiful client, equally cryptic relationship with the guy she wanted found, oh, who just happened to be possessed by an archdemon and hung out with John Marcone.

But that peek inside her did me in. Despite the glacial exterior, there was a lot of pain inside that gorgeous form, old pain. Remorse, guilt, shame, grief…I was all too familiar with them. That glimpse also told me one other thing.

She was alone. Completely, utterly alone. It was her against this nightmare, and she had no one she could turn to, or would turn to. Obviously she wanted it that way, thus the Lady Ice act. 

She was afraid that others would get hurt because of her fight.

Gee, I didn't know anything about what that felt like. At all. Not even a smidge.

"Okay, I'll do it. Provided he's still in that host, I can probably find him with that hair. Do you have any pictures?"

"Yes," she said again, neatly folding up the hair inside the tattered cloth. Placing it in her lap, she opened the attaché case and pulled out two eight by ten manila envelopes, and another plain white business size envelope. "Inside are pictures, and the details I could find of his time in Chicago."

"That will give me a place to start."

"As far as his host, you should know he is inextricably bound to him. The demon cannot leave him. Cannot abandon him. Not to possess a new host, not to flee back to Hell."

"That's…different." It was unheard of. Demons went through hosts like I went through operational vehicles. Mortals just didn't have the power to chain them to a meat suit, even if they had the motivation.

I might have been able to do it, but I had certain advantages. I'd had a similar entity rattling around in my head for years, before I'd managed to subvert it. It had been destroyed protecting me from a massive psychic assault. Mixed emotions didn't even begin to cover it.

"I assume I don't have to tell you about the various dangers inherent in involving yourself in the affairs of a demon?"

"Nope, I took a correspondence course in it. Incredibly Evil Archdemons 101. And Latin."

That made her lips twitch in that forbidden smile again. It lifted my heart. I wanted to see a real smile from her. An honest-to-goodness, teeth flashing, happy happy happy smile. I wondered what I would have to do to see it.

"The white envelope is your retainer. Is two thousand dollars sufficient?"

I did not goggle. I didn't. Shut up.

I had gotten an inexplicable and not small increase in the lease for the office. The retainer would allow me to catch up and pull even with it. The rent had been increasing steadily over the last three years. Moving was becoming a distinct possibility.

Or not. My office. Not yours. You can't has.

"More than," I said smoothly, breaking the circle with a little effort of will and taking the things she handed me. The little cloth packet got extra-special kid glove attention. I felt the weight of the white envelope, and arched an eyebrow at her. "Cash?"

"Should it have been a check? I thought cash might be more expedient."

"No, it's fine. I am a huge fan of expedience." I moved back around my desk and took a seat. I set the envelopes on the desk. The packet I put in the bottom drawer. It was warded and should keep it hidden from anything that might be looking for it. Pulling out a standard contract, I filled out the salient parts, leaving out things like archdemons. The IRS got very audit happy when I put down things like "Sand, 10 lbs., for use in the creation of magic circles". 

"My rate is $100 an hour, plus expenses." Inflation, man. It's a bitch.

"More than reasonable," she said.

She stood, sliding the clasp on the attaché case closed.

"Varya." She paused. What was I doing? She was a client. A client involved with a pretty freaking nasty situation. My mouth didn’t listen. "I know a place that has the best steak sandwiches and beer you've ever had. And it's dinner time. Care to join me? My treat." I waggled the thick white envelope at her. "Just got paid."

She froze, and I could see the exact same warning playing through her head as if they were illuminated behind her in IMAX. I could see the rejection on her face, fighting to make its way to her lips.

But she seemed to have the same problem I did with her mouth obeying instruction.

"I would…like that, Harry."

And she smiled.

It wasn't the full on, wide as the sun and twice as bright smile I was hoping for, but it was a real one.

My heart skipped a beat, and with a lightness I hadn't felt in a long, long time I got up and gestured to the door. 

"After you."

For my part, not only was I asking a stranger, a client, and an unknown out to dinner, I was offering to take her to a place mortals generally didn't go to unless they had a reason. But if she was hunting an archdemon, maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all. 

The glance she gave me before she moved was a bit bewildered, and more than a bit concerned. This was dangerous. She was involving me in a hazardous situation, but she just couldn’t help herself.

I knew what she was feeling so well, could identify and analyze it so accurately, because it was something that had been a constant companion for the last several years of my life.

And she paused to let me open the door of my office for her.

That was…kinda nice.

  


 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry takes her to Mac's where awkwardness ensues, but hey, at least the beer is good.
> 
> Update - Proofed and edited. Final draft.

# Chapter Three

"Do you have a car?" I asked, heading for the stairs. There was an elevator, but…well…I didn't think lunch would go so well if we spent three hours trapped in a malfunctioning metal box before the appetizer. Electrical devices no likey me. They tend to go poof, spark, smoke, not necessarily in that order. 

At least the elevator had been repaired from…um…the last time I'd used it.

Hey, that was totally not my fault. Scorpion. Stop snickering. It hadn't been a normal scorpion, okay?

"No, no car. I took a taxi to your office from my hotel."

I debated taking her in my car.

My car, the _Blue Beetle,_ was a valiant steel defender of justice and the downtrodden. But like all superheroes, had to maintain a lowly secret identity. My car's secret identity was as a VW bug that had once been blue, but now sported bits from other bugs. Namely the driver side door, the passenger side door, the hood, left rear quarter panel, right rear quarter panel…and they were all in different colors. 

Okay, it looked like that all the time. It wasn't a secret identity. And it wasn't exactly a chick magnet.

Well, Varya had taken my office in stride, let's see how she handled my car. And the interior had finally been redone after a round with some mold demons that had stripped every bit of non-metallic substance out of it. It had actual seats once more, instead of the cobbled two by four and duct tape ensemble I'd been using.

As I expected, when I pointed my car out to her, she merely walked up to it, standing by the passenger door. I grinned and opened it for her with a little bow and she gave me an appreciative look, sliding in with natural grace, folding her long legs inside. She made my beat up car look like an _avante garde_ artistic statement, instead of Optimus Frankenprime.

I moved around the front, popped the hood and tossed in my duster and staff, which I had collected from their usual resting places in my office before we left. I got in and turned the key with a whispered prayer to whom or whatever might be listening and not as pissed off at me as all the other whoms and whats, and for once the _Beetle_ started right up. 

The technology thing. I mentioned it, right? Anything made after the Vietnam era had distinct issues with wizards. It wasn't just me. Whenever machinery or electronics got near magical energies, they just stopped working. The _Beetle_ was still around because Bugs were one of the easiest to repair cars in existence. My mechanic, Mike, was a genius. 

Besides, it was _my_ car. Mine. Not yours. You can't has.

Are you sensing a theme?

No one was really sure why wizards manifested negative impact on their environments. In days gone by it had been food spoiling, physical manifestations in the form of rashes and boils, and a variety of other things. The mechanical issue didn't really start up until World War II. 

Ever hear about gremlins? Yeah. That was us. Totally unintentional, but we couldn't really control it.

"It's a lovely day," she remarked, looking out the window after I'd pulled out into traffic.

And it was, too. Early October, the summer heat having given way to autumn cool without it turning into winter chill yet. The lowering sun in the west illuminated the city with that strong, golden-orange glow you can only get in the fall. 

"My favorite time of year," I told her. 

"Is it?"

"Yeah. Nature getting ready for bed, and it has the snazziest pajamas. There's something about fall. It's energizing and relaxing all at the same time."

"I…like that."

"So, Russia?"

"Ukraine. A little village outside of Kiev. Although I haven't been there for a very long time."

"Do you miss it?"

"The village? Not particularly. Unpleasant things happened there. It was best that I left."

"No family?" I asked gently.

"I was turned out of my father's house," she said simply, shrugging. It made her anatomy resettle in interesting ways. "I broke his rules. I knew the consequences, but I was young and foolish."

Wow. That sounded harsh. Of course, my foster father had tried to groom me for a life of black magic thralldom and I'd had to set him on fire. It's all relative. 

Get it? Relative, father? Snerk.

"And you haven't seen him since?"

A spasm of pain. "No. Nor heard his voice."

"You miss him," I said sympathetically. "Can you two patch things up?"

"I'm trying to."

"Ilyvich."

"Yes."

"Your father commanded you to kill an archdemon in order to come back home?"

That earned me a sidelong glance. "I know it sounds unreasonable—"

"Unreasonable? What kind of father would demand his daughter kill a freaking archdemon to get his love?"

"It's not that simple, Harry," she said, swallowing hard to force the stricken look off her face. 

I made myself calm down, feeling one of my headaches coming on. They could get vicious if I didn't nip them in the bud. But damsels in distress always got me. Being an orphan, damsels in distress with bad home backgrounds got me hard.

Er…hit. Hit me hard. Go away, Freud.

"I'm sorry," I finally said. "I hardly know you, and I'm judging your life."

"It's all right," she said, and then gave me that smile that made my heart do a little flip. "Your outrage on my behalf is…gratifying."

And all was forgiven. My headache vanished, too.

I pulled into the parking lot of the place I'd been heading and got out. It wasn't crowded, five or six other cars in the lot. 

Sure enough, she remained sitting in her seat until I went around and opened the door for her.

There wasn't anything imperious about it. She wasn't expecting my servitude, and it wasn't like she wasn’t capable of opening the door herself. It was civilized. The nostalgic manners of a romanticized era. It made us both feel good. 

On impulse, I offered my right hand to help her out and she took it, lightly pressing those cool, slender fingers into mine. Her skin was the softest I had ever touched. Once she was standing, I did a complete turn, sliding her hand up my arm to rest on mine, right before the crook of my elbow.

No tingle denoting a fellow spellslinger, either.

She turned pleased eyes up towards mine, moving with me, and stepped close to my side. In such happy amiability I led her to and down the short flight of stairs and through the front door of McAnally's. I felt like a king, his beautiful queen on his arm.

The first impression of McAnally's was it was a pretty standard Irish pub, that you'd be able to find another one just like it in Chicago by picking a random direction and sniffing for beer and potato soup. Then you noticed the thirteen randomly placed wooden columns, the thirteen ceiling fans, the thirteen haphazardly placed tables. You noticed the ornate carvings on the bar, the columns, depicting a wide variety of mythological beasties and Grimm style boogies. Then you noticedthe sign.

It was a simple, wooden affair. Burned onto its surface were the words ACCORDED NEUTRAL TERRITORY.

Mac was behind the bar, as usual. Tall, lanky, but with a sure way of moving that gave the impression of power. He was dressed in white shirt and black slacks, with the superfluous white apron. The apron was superfluous because Mac worked the bar and the big wood burning grill behind it and I had never, not once, seen so much as a grease spot on it. I'd never seen sweat on his shaven scalp, either.

He looked up as we entered and he gave me a little nod. A part of me that I didn't know was tense abruptly relaxed. More than once I had come into the place with trouble already waiting for me. This wasn't one of those times.

Of course, the night was young. Trouble could still find me, but I hoped it would at least wait until I'd eaten. I was starving.

There were a scattering of people at the tables, maybe a dozen or so, sitting in little clumps of two or three. All of them gave me a long, appraising stare without meeting my eyes. 

It didn't make me feel particularly welcome, but I understood it. Most of Mac's clientele were the less powerful practitioners. Not enough magic or ability to get them noticed by the White Council, but enough to make them a tantalizing treat for any passing creature with a taste for such things. Mac's was a safe haven for them. 

To them I was a dynamo of magical energy. A wizard on the Council, and one of their cops slash special forces to boot. Aside from the official titles and positions, I had also made something of a name for myself. The whole dealing with Fallen and old gods thing.

Oh, and I kicked off a war between the Council and the entire Red Court Vampire empire, too. Did I mention that?

Vampire empire? No wonder they called it a kingdom.

I hadn't wanted to be a Warden. I'd been drafted. They wouldn't let me opt for early separation and desertion was harshly dealt with.

Let's just say I've had some interesting history with the White Council, the organization formed by Merlin (yes, that Merlin) to oversee and protect the world with the Laws of Magic. There weren't many, and they were pretty straightforward. 

And breaking them resulted in summary judgment and execution by, you guessed it, the Wardens.

The Wardens had learned not to invite me along on the whole judgment and execution thing. I had fundamental ideological issues. Big ones. And I let them know about them. At great length and volume. 

It did not endear me to them. 

Particularly as I had managed to get them to be lenient on the whole Dredd style of justice not once, but twice. I had broken the first Law when I killed my foster father with magic. It had taken some strong convincing by a few members of the Senior Council to agree that it was self-defense and put me on probation, apprenticed to my grandfather. Then I had gotten them to do the same thing for my apprentice. She hadn't killed anyone.

She'd just reached inside the heads of two of her friends with magic and changed their brains.

There'd been good reasons for it, but she had still shouldn't have done it, and that was black magic of a particularly insidious kind. It had taken some arm twisting, some blackmail, a lot of fast talking, and the weight of a few members of the Senior Council on my side to get them to agree to put her on probation as well.

If she screwed up, it wasn't just her neck on the line, it was mine, too. I had taken responsibility for her. But I would do it all again in a heartbeat. She was the daughter of a man who I respected more than anything in the world, who I owed more than my life to. 

The eyes of the other patrons finally slid away and I led Varya to a table, aiming for one as far away from them as I could get. No one bolted for the door. I took that as a good sign.

I pulled out her chair and she slid into it with a kind of delighted sensuality. 

Wow. That was…wow.

"Be right back," I told her once I'd stuffed my tongue back in my mouth from all the panting I was doing. "Mac has kind of a 'pick up your own damn food and drink' thing."

She nodded and I made my way to the bar.

I'd had vampiresses, succubi, a Fallen Angel of Lust, a couple of faerie Queens, and who knows what else tossing the old sex hex at me for a long time, but I hadn't felt this kind of…simple desire in ages. Not since…well, not for a long time.

And that's what it was. Simple desire. Attraction. And that was what made it so damned appealing. Varya wasn't signaling any come-at-me signs, no flirting, nada, but the way she had moved with me in the parking lot, her height easily allowing her to match my stride, her hip brushing against mine, the enjoyment she was getting from our little chivalry game, the same kind I was, the way she'd listened to me talk about my favorite season…

Compared to the female attention I usually got, this was a draught of pure spring water after being hosed down in grog. The grog was definitely more potent, but it was also a mixmash of beverages that generally did not go well together and made you feel like you'd been hit by the El afterwards. The spring water slaked your thirst, tasted nice, and actually left you in a better state than before you'd drunk it.

Before you ask, not all wizards have the capacity for terrible analogies like I do. Just so you know.

Okay, so it had been a long time since I just _talked_ to a normal woman. I got that. I'd been so busy teaching Molly, my apprentice, helping with the war, and doing my private eye thing that my paltry social life had petered out to a dead stall. Human beings are herd animals. We are comforted by the company of our fellow creatures. It's instinctive and undeniable.

My little circle of intimates was generally enough for me, being a loner type, but I hadn't seen them much lately. I'd been working hard with Molly, trying to teach her what she needed to know as quickly and as carefully as I could. Her life was on the line until she could prove to the Council that she could be a responsible magical citizen. I hadn't seen my friends, like Murphy or Billy, or my brother Thomas, in months. 

And Molly was out of the question. She was just a kid. Okay, she was almost old enough to drink. But I'd known her since she'd been in a training bra. Her father had done more for me than I could ever repay…and he'd once had a big glowy holy sword that could snicker-snack my head clean off of my shoulders. I was positive if he were properly motivated it could come into play again. To ginsu me. While her mother crushed my dangly bits with a sledgehammer she liked.

So yeah. 

I leaned on the bar. "Heya, Mac. Two of your superlative beers and two of your sublime steak sandwiches, if you please, my good man."

Mac grunted.

He was capable of words. I'd heard him. But he coveted them the way Gollum coveted the Ring.

Reaching down, he put two bottles on the bar and then slapped two steaks sizzling onto the grill. 

I hoisted the bottles with a salute and headed back to the table.

Varya was studying the carvings on one of the nearby columns with obvious interest. They were interesting. The higher you got, the more beautiful the carvings got, dragonfly-winged fairies, flowers, a lot of curling ivy. The lower you got the darker they got, evil things cavorting in a variety of debaucheries.

"Try this, you'll never go back to store-bought again," I said, sitting down and setting the beer in front of her. She quirked an eyebrow and reached for the bottle, taking a cautious sip. Then her other eyebrow joined its sister and she took a more appreciative pull.

"That is amazing. I haven't tasted anything like that since the old country."

"We call Mac the Beermancer, Master of Hops and Barley."

"Seems accurate," she said. "What is this place?"

"This is McAnally's. You saw the sign?"

"I did."

"The Accords it refers to are the Unseelie Accords. Think of them as the Geneva Convention for the magical world. This place is Switzerland. It gives enemy agents a place to come and talk without a nasty firefight breaking out. It also keeps the not-so-powerful practitioners a place to go where they don't have to worry about something coming in thinking they're a Rice Krispy Treat."

"Ah. Is that why the décor is so…" She waved a hand, encompassing the entirety of the bar.

"Partly. It's also to ground out magical energy before it can collect. It is a bar, after all. A lot of people go to bars after a bad day. When those people are wizards, they tend to create an aura around them that can interfere with other folks."

"Wizards, like you."

"Like me. I'm not exactly a lightweight, and my grumpies can lead to some pretty bad effects without things like this to diffuse it before it can screw with other people."

"And the excellent beer doesn't hurt."

"It certainly doesn't."

"You not being a lightweight," she began, and she was speaking in that same tone I'd used when I'd asked about her father. She might be stepping on some toes, and she didn’t want to push too hard. "Is that why they all looked at you like they weren't sure which way you were going to jump?"

I took another swig. "That's some of it. I'm…kind of a police officer when it comes to the magic scene. I keep an eye out for anyone abusing magic, hurting people with it. It doesn't inspire trust."

That was for the White Council, but I couldn't talk to her about them. They got real excited when vanillas learned about them.

"But you're doing it to protect them," she said. "If they have nothing to hide, why would they mistrust you?"

"The enforcement of the rules can be draconic. There are others in my line of work who behead first, ask questions later. They can be very, very zealous and very, very persistent."

"I'm sorry," she said softly. I blinked. The words had come out a lot harsher, a lot angrier than I had intended.

"It's a thing," I said. "I was hunted by the ones who are now my colleagues. Minus one. I'm still not over it."

"Minus one?"

"Yeah, my biggest detractor, Morgan…" I shrugged, took a drink. "He made a pretty big sacrifice for that organization. I see their necessity, I just detest their methods."

"Then why join them?"

"I was drafted," I said with another swig. "I didn’t have a choice."

"So you do the best you can within the rules you are given. I think that's…admirable."

"You do, huh?" I asked with a smile, feeling a little jolt of gratification. "That's really nice to hear."

"You sound like you don’t hear it very often."

"Try never," I replied with a grin to take the sting out of my words. "Even my friends take the opportunity to tear into me whenever they can." I held up a hand to forestall her protest. "It's necessary. I have a tendency to arrogance and hubris, so whenever my head starts to swell, they get to fight over the stickpin."

"Dresden."

I stood back up at Mac's call and retrieved our sandwiches off the bar, along with two more beers. 

As I set her plate down, I saw her face brighten and she reached for the sandwich.

Not a salad and a Diet Coke kind of girl. Bonus points.

We ate in companionable silence, relishing the food, washing it down with more of the dark brown malty goodness. After the sandwiches and every chip had been demolished, we sat back in mutual contentment.

"Thank you for bringing me here," she said. "It's been a long time since I've gone somewhere with someone."

"Same here."

We looked at each other for a moment. I wanted to hold it, but forced myself to drop my eyes before the soulgaze could start. 

"How did you end up chasing down an archdemon?" I asked.

Smooth, Dresden. You sweet-talker. No wonder the ladies couldn't stay away.

"That," she said, "as you can imagine, is neither a short nor a pleasant tale."

"I have time," I said. It was true. Molly had been wrangled into a camping trip with her brothers and sisters, taken by an aunt and uncle. Despite desperate pleading on her part for me to find something, anything for her to do to get her out of it, I had sent her off with a benediction. She had said very, very not nice things. "I just need to get back home in time to feed my cat and dog."

"You have pets?"

"They have me. His high lord Mister and the living mountain Mouse."

"Mouse?"

"I didn't know he was going to be jumbo sized until it was too late."

It wasn't like I hadn't noticed the change of conversation. But I let it slide. I had asked her to open up on something that was probably very personal. It wasn't like I was ready to trade angsty, soul-riven tales either.

"How long have you lived in Chicago?" she asked.

"A long, long time. Since I was…wow, nineteen. Time flies. Before that I lived in the Ozarks with my mentor."

"Your wizard mentor?"

"Yep. Stubborn, irascible old man." I was proud of myself for the use of the word 'irascible'. "Who taught me the meaning of what is really important. The value of life."

Of course, it had all been a huge lie. Not only had my mentor turned out to be my grandfather, he was also the wetwork man for the Council. He had the power to ignore the Laws of Magic, and had done so, on many, many occasions. I was still dealing with that.

But the foundation he had laid for me, the foundation of my magic, my faith, was still there. Recently learned truths couldn’t change that. Only my opinion of him had. 

It was always hard when those we force onto pedestals fall off of them.

"Varya, how much do you really know about me?"

"Practically nothing. I haven't been here long. I've been traveling across America for quite some time. I came here, was looking for a private investigator. I found you."

"And you just bought that I was a wizard?"

"I thought that if you were, I needed you. If you weren't, I would have found out when I showed you the hair. Until then, I just took you at your word."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"Trusting people you don't know is a good way to get dead, Varya. Especially in this town."

"But I was right about you, wasn't I?" she asked with a grin. "I have faith." For some reason, that grin turned ironical.

"In what?" I was genuinely curious. Most everyone I knew was just as jaded and cynical as I was.

"I don't know, people, maybe?"

"That's the best way to be disappointed."

"Not if you have faith in them to be what they are."

"How do you find that out?"

"By trusting them until you have reason not to. That's what faith is, Harry."

"You sound like a friend of mine," I grumbled, peeling a corner of the label off the sweating beer bottle. "He's big on faith, too."

"Good friend?"

"The best. Couldn't ask for better."

"Then I take it as a compliment."

"You should."

"You're the same, you know."

"Me? Naw, I'm as dried out as old leather, and twice as inflexible."

"Really. Is that why you resent all these people in here? The ones who watched you walk in with wary and fearful eyes? Obviously you condemn them."

"I do not—okay, okay, I see what you're saying."

"Point for me," she quipped. 

She really needed to stop smiling at me like that. It was turning my knees to water. And I was sitting down. Walking was going to be a real issue.

I felt that single, clear bell tone that I heard every night. Sundown. Every wizard could feel when the sun came up and when it went down. It wasn't a big huge complicated thing. Dusk was when certain energies became stronger, dawn was when the entire magical slate got wiped clean again.

"This Ilyvich," I said slowly. "How badly does he want you."

The bottle she was raising to her lips froze halfway there. She set it back down with a thud, untasted. 

"Want me what?"

"You tell me."

"He wants to stop me from reaching him. He will use anything in his power to make that happen."

She seemed to deflate a little. The icy mask smoothly slid back into place.

"I think I should go back to my hotel now," she said quietly.

"I can protect you, Varya."

"No," she shook her head, it was a forlorn little jerk. "You can't."

"Then can you accept that I can protect me?"

She looked up at me, her eyes pleading with me not to push harder, to keep trying to get in, not to take those arctic defenses down again.

I put a couple of bills on the table and stood.

She didn't wait for me to pull out her chair.  



	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While taking Varya back to her hotel, a variety of strange and unsettling things happen.
> 
> And then some monsters show up.
> 
> Rough draft.

# Chapter Four

"Where are you staying?"

"I can take a cab. I believe you have work to do."

"Varya." She stopped from where she'd been crossing to the bar. "Let me take you. Where are you staying?"

The ice cracked.

Almost helplessly she said, "The Sax."

The Sax. Of course it was the Sax. Yay memories of balls-to-the-wall psycho vampiresses and obnoxious Cockney summoners.

"Come on."

We walked in silence out to the _Beetle_ , me increasing my step a little so I could open the door to the passenger side before she could.

That earned me a wry little crook of one corner of her mouth.

I got to Lakeshore, planning to cut across Grand to State Street, where the Sax was. I was recently familiar with the location of the hotel. At least the ride would be scenic.

The easy quiet we'd shared had evaporated. She sat perfectly still, hands folded in her lap over her attaché case. 

We putt-putted along until the _Beetle_ gave a very alarming burp, then the entire chassis started shaking like we were driving over corrugated aluminum.

Now what? I wasn't even _doing_ anything!

I managed to get the bug into a parking lot not far from the Field Museum.

Yay, more riotous memories. 

Come on, I told me, it wasn't that bad.

You are absolutely right, me replied to I. Nearly getting disemboweled by a crazy asshat in the throes of possession withdrawal is just tops.

The zombie Tyrannosaurus Rex was cool, I retorted. You have to admit that.

Okay, me grudgingly replied. The undead dino was cool.

"What's wrong?" Varya asked. No panic in her voice, more curiosity than concern.

"This happens sometimes," I said, hauling the wheel into a sharp turn and the little car more or less managed to wheeze its way into a spot. More or less.

"Oh."

Opening the door, I went around to the back and hoisted open the compartment. 

Yep. It was an engine. It looked okay. I mean, it looked all enginey and stuff. No hunks taken out of it, no belching black smoke…

There was a puff of white from one of the roundish things on top and a gaspy sort of rattling sound.

Of course.

Time to call my mechanomancer. Mike wasn't really a wizard, but he had to have some svartelf in him to be able to keep the _Beetle_ coming back for repeat performances like a The Who reunion tour.

"Can you call a taxi on your cell? Oh, and my mechanic so I can get this towed, I've got his number memorized." I called out to Varya. She had rolled down the window and stuck her head out.

"I don't have a cell phone."

Huh. I figured that made us the two individuals in Chicago capable of speech who didn't.

"Then I guess we're legging it. Sorry about this. Do you mind?"

"Not at all. This isn't your fault."

"Well…about that…"

I beat her to the punch again and got her door open before she could wrestle the handle. Once more I offered her my hand. She took it after a pause, biting her lip and looking away.

Then she regained her icy mantle. "You're saying this is your fault?"

"Electrical devices and wizards don't mix. Magical auras tend to make machinery and such go kablooey."

"Kablooey," she repeated seriously. "That sounds like quite a fearsome power. Behold the power of kablooey."

I wriggled my fingers at her. "It is good for you to be wary. You never know when it will strike."

She smiled.

I gestured northward. "Shall we?"

She gamely took a step forward and we moved across the vast, empty parking lot to the two mile or so long stretch of parks along the shore. At least the walk would be in pleasant surroundings. There weren't any events tonight, so the area was relatively empty. 

The huge harvest moon shone on the waters to our right, painting everything in silver light. It even managed to drown out the horribly garish safety orange street lamps, mostly left behind in the parking lot behind us, and running along Lakeshore some distance to our left..

Looking over at Varya, I sucked in a breath. The moon light had given her skin a pearlescent sheen, limning her features in radiance, and her eyes seemed to shine like aquamarines. 

She was one of the loveliest things I had ever seen.

Not drop dead gorgeous, not so beautiful it would turn a man in to a raving beast. Lovely. I liked looking at her. I liked the way looking at her made me feel. As if being with her would make me a better person, a better man. Stronger, maybe. As if I could tell her anything, everything, even those dark, horrific parts of my life that made me bolt awake in the middle of the night; fear, guilt, and shame churning in my gut, sweat drenching me, hands clawing at the sheets, gasping for breath with tears streaming from my eyes.

She wouldn't judge. She wouldn't condemn. She would just…be there, mostly. Listen. Then she would hold me until the shaking stopped.

Without thinking I turned my head away, reached out and took her hand in mine. My left one. The one with the glove covering it. The last two fingers wouldn't close properly around hers.

Her first reaction was to gently pull away but something made her look up at my profile. I just stared straight ahead, heart suddenly doing a fine jackhammer impression.

Something else made her curl her fingers firmly around my own.

She muttered something to herself in a language I didn't understand, looking sharply away. 

I didn't understand the words, but I knew what they meant all the same. I was kind of asking myself the same thing.

What in the hell do you think you are you _doing?_

I thought back into the office, when she'd made the boy wizard reference. The click. 

It couldn't happen. Click or no click, this—whatever it was, couldn't happen.

Let's review, shall we?

Bad things happened to the people I cared about. My first love had been turned into a thrall by our mentor, and I thought I had killed her by burning her alive. If I hadn't abandoned her, believing her to have betrayed me, she would have had no problem with the White Council. She hadn't broken any of the Laws, havingjust cast a binding spell on me. Now she was on the run from the most unforgiving body of law on the planet since the Inquisition.

My second love had followed me to a Red Court party, where she had been captured and turned into a half-vampire, tormented every minute of every day by a dire thirst which, if she ever slaked it would complete the transformation into inhumane monster. She'd had to abandon her life and run to another _continent_ because she was so afraid I would be what pushed her to her first kill. She loved me. She wouldn't have been able to control herself around me.

Third girlfriend. The lady Warden. She had been brain whammied into thinking she liked me. Yeah, we'd consummated it. Imagine our fun surprise finding out it had all been engineered by a traitor to distract her and emotionally screw with her. Bad things had been done, and not discovered for a long time because of that distraction. I hadn't been mind-melded. I had genuinely liked her.

My friend Karrin Murphy was riding the thin edge as a cop because she kept insisting on hiring a crackpot wizard as a consultant, not to mention the bumps, bruises, and breaks she'd taken for me over the years. Oh and the psychic rape and torture she'd undergone just because she knew me.

Molly's dad? Yeah, he had been helping me out and ended up getting shot about a hundred and thirty seven times. He just now was able to start physical therapy to use a cane, instead of a wheelchair. And the entire world had lost an incredibly powerful warrior against the darkness.

One of his associates, another guy who'd had a big glowy holy sword had sacrificed himself for me. Ended up being the focal point of a brutal ritual where most of his insides ended up on the outside, decorating the walls, the floor, and the altar. Another Knight out of action.

I refuse to speak about what my brother has gone through.

Do I really need to go on? I think the point is made.

Molly was around because there was no other alternative, but you better fucking believe if there had been _anyone_ else available that I could trust with her, I would pack her up and wave goodbye.

Bad things happen to the people who get close to me.

Which was why I isolated myself. 

So what in the hell _did_ I think I was doing?

All of these thoughts ran through me in a flash, and my hand stayed in hers.

We walked through the trees, the manicured patches of grass, the artistically laid pavement, the fountains. We didn't look at each other. We didn’t speak.

Then I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

You know that feeling you get when it seems something is watching you?

I can pretty much guarantee that's because something is watching you. 

It's the instinctive response from creatures used to being predator and prey. It had tens of thousands of years to perfect itself, the bipeds without it didn’t last very long. I paid attention to it.

Varya must have felt me tense.

"What is it?" she asked in a low voice.

I stopped and drew her to me, using our joined hands, into an embrace. "Just play along. Something's out there. It's probably what zapped my car," I murmured into her ear.

She sighed and leaned against me, resting her head on top of my shoulder, pressing against me.

Damn. That felt really, really nice. Not just the body contact, or the way her ample…features pressed into my chest. It was her laying her head on my shoulder. None of my previous girlfriends could do that. I was just too NBA tall. 

But with Varya, I could nuzzle her hair, the back of her neck, by merely bending my head, no stooping involved.

So I did.

Hey, I had to make it real, right? Had to sell it to the bad guys watching. You know how it is.

"I see two very large, round objects in the trees northwest," she said, with a delicious shiver as my lips brushed the little whorl of silvery blonde hair where it was drawn up off her neck. "They are in shadow, I can't make out any details."

"How large?" I asked, her hands sliding up my arms, over my shoulders, linking behind me. 

"About the size of a minivan," she replied. My own hands slid down her back, resting on her hips.

"What are they doing?" I asked. She raised her head again, bringing her face near to mine as if for a kiss. But her eyes weren't closed, they were open the barest slit, looking over my left shoulder.

"Nothing. They're just hovering there." I lowered my head again, caressing her cheek with my own. Her scent bloomed around me.

"Okay, this is important." I said. "Are you being metaphorical or are they actually hovering?"

"They are actually hovering."

"Here's the plan. We are going to walk, very slowly, back to my car. Two lovers out for an evening stroll. Okay?"

I expected questions, a protest, some sort of impairment due to fear.

"Very well," was all she said, that silken cheek against mine, lustrous hair brushing my temple.

"Don't be scared. I'm here."

Her arms tightened around me for the briefest moment.

"I'm not scared."

I believed her.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

I forced out a laugh, and she responded with a throaty chuckle that zipped through my nerves like ticklish lightning. We languidly broke apart and began moseying back in the general direction of the _Beetle._ Good thing. Despite the fact that there were unknown, and big, menaces lurking in the darkness, her proximity was making things uncomfortable in the region of my pants, and that wasn't something you could exactly hide in a body-to-body hug.

"There are two more," she said, leaning against my side. "Maybe more than two. The shadows are thick."

"You don't happen to have any idea what they are, do you?" I put my arm around her shoulders.

"I have never seen anything like them. They aren't demonic." She slid her arm down around my waist. More marveling on my part for our matching heights.

"Probably from the Nevernever. Laugh again."

Another rich smoky chuckle. "Did something happen?"

"No, I just wanted to hear it."

She stiffened against me for the barest second.

"Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"No, you didn't, it's not that. It's not…" she said in a rush, then took a deep breath. That was a distinctly pleasant sensation, considering half of her anatomy was softy crushed against my ribs. "I just…I suppose I'm wasn't prepared for you to be so…so…"

"Goofy? Immature? Dorky?"

She tased me again with a low laugh, it was even more intense when it was genuine.

"Charming. Honest. Sweet."

"All so I can lure you into my trap," I said. 

"You have excellent bait."

Well ain't that me all over? Debonair wizard. Dresden, Harry Dresden. I like my Coca-Cola shaken, not stirred.

Oh, come on. You know what I'm going for. Figure it out.

"You keep that up and I'm going to have to go see one of my friends with the stickpins."

"No worries. If you start thinking you're a god I'll cross the streams."

I couldn't help it. I contracted my arm. She didn't seem to mind.

We had crossed about half the distance back to the Bug. The whatsits still hadn't made a move and that was just fine by me. I'd left all my magical gear in the car, not expecting a dustup. If they wanted to play voyeur until I could get my thumping stick and supercool black duster, I would keep giving them a show.

It was _not_ because of the exquisite sharpness invading my body at her touch, that sweetness so intense it was almost painful. That heightened, heart-pounding sense that is really, really splendid sexual tension.

It was ramped up even higher because of the imminent danger swirling around us. Sex and violence have always been closely linked, the surge of hormones as the fight or flight instincts kicked in. It gave you a hyperawareness about everything around you. Even your sense of touch.

Somehow, somehow, I knew she was feeling the same thing I was.

Don’t analyze it, Harry. Just enjoy it. It's all going to end once you get to the car anyway.

Because once I got to the car, got my implements, and went to do battle, I would come crashing back to reality. And that reality did not include one-night stands, because I cared too much. Neither did it include any kind of blossoming relationship. For the same reason.

The parking lot came into view.

"I don't know if these things will risk following us into the open," I told her. "If they do you run west. Find a phone. Call a cab. Get out of here."

"Harry, I've been chasing a demon for many years. These do not frighten me."

"Listen, fighting demons and fighting creatures from the Nevernever are two entirely different things."

"I am aware. I just said that to let you know that I've been in worse situations." She paused. "And I'd rather not go until I know what those things are and if they're after you or me."

That made sense. Dammit.

"Stay behind me, then."

"I will."

We made it to the _Beetle_. Giving each other a glance, we dropped our arms and pulled apart. She went around to the passenger door and opened it, sliding the attaché case off from where she'd worn it by its shoulder strap and put it in the car.

As I pulled out my duster, staff, and blasting rod, I noticed that she maneuvered behind me. Just a girl waiting for her boyfriend to get some things he'd forgotten in his studly car. No big deal.

The duster went on with the smell of rich leather. Black, maybe a little cowboy, except for the mantle that covered my shoulders, and covered with protective runes and wards. My staff was a length of oak, and my blasting rod was a much shorter, knobbier stick. They also had gotten the magic treatment. The staff got gripped in my right hand, the side for sending energy, and my blasting rod got slid into the loop on the inside of my duster. I missed my rings, braided silver impregnated with kineto magic that charged with every movement of my arm. But they'd gotten kind of destroyed and I hadn't had the resources to remake them.

I turned and nodded to her and we started walking back towards the park.

The things had not followed us.

As we got nearer, I could see what she had been talking about. Several huge, roundish shapes hovered a few feet off the ground in the trees. Then I saw what they were.

"Oh, great. Fizzlekerblams."

  


 


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The general weirdness when fighting killer pinatas. Just another day at the office for Harry.
> 
> Rough draft.

# Chapter Five

"Fizzle—what?" 

"Kerblams." I raked my fingers through my hair. It was in danger of flopping into my eyes. Definitely time for a cut. The shapes just kept looming, waiting.

"They're…they're like a cross between one of those old navy mines and a piñata. They just float around until something specific touches them and then—" I used my gloved hand to illustrate. "Fizzle. Kerblam. Fizzlekerblams. I have no idea what they're really called. They're technically wyld fae, but they don't seem to be very intelligent."

"Or very threatening."

"Yeah, and that's where you'd be wrong. They're slow, clumsy, and stupid, but they're incredibly destructive. That's where the piñata part comes in. You never know what's inside. Could be glitter. Or snow. Or a happy thought. Or a whirlpool. Or a singularity. Or an explosion. Or a stripper. Or an atom of antimatter. You just don't know. The ultimate slot machine. And once they have your scent, they just keep coming."

She was peering at them in open curiosity but she seemed to be studying them in earnest, not looking like the wizard was off his nut.

"And they can be…programmed to, uh, kerblam due to a specific touch?"

"Yeah. Magic, or water, or dirt, something like that. Or everything. They will always kerblam to steel and iron. They're relentless. Eventually they will get to you. And if you get too close, they emit some sort of paralytic magic. You slow down. You know like when you're in a dream and you're running in molasses? That kind of slow."

"I don't remember my dreams," she said absently, eyes still on the looming shapes. "That sounds very unpleasant."

"It is. I got showered with gold dust, covered in Amazonian army ants, and a laugh track from a1950s sitcom the last time I ran into these. Before that it was a sandstorm that blasted most of my clothes off and three Raquel Welches that stripped me naked. Okay, that last wouldn't have been so bad but they had horrendously bad breath, snorted fire, and melted when the sun came up."

She ran a finger across her lips as if to literally brush away the smile.

"So, what do we do?"

"First we separate and see who they go after. If they're after me, awesome. If they're after you, less awesome, but workable. If it's me, you make like a tree and get out of here. If it's you, you stick close to me. We'll round them up and I'll safely dispose of them."

"How?"

"Working on it. The slower we move, the slower they move, and it's the same in the reverse."

"Understood."

"Okay, move out."

She trotted off at a light jog in the direction of the lake. I just started backpedaling, shaking my shield bracelet down and eyeballing the fizzlekerblams. 

Look, I was really punch drunk when I named them, okay? Don't judge me.

She got about fifty feet away when she turned around and started walking backwards as well.

The fizzlekerblams split into two groups, one after me, one after her, six in each.

What in the world? They couldn’t have just been programmed to go after everyone they came across. That would overload their tiny brains and they'd freeze. And if they didn't have a target, they didn't move. Neither did they just wander here out of a random opening from the Nevernever. They just stayed in place, feeding off the ambient magical energy all around them. They never moved unless someone made them. And sending them after me was just…way stupid. 

I was more worried about some random passerby getting caught in their slowing aura than getting hurt by them. I wasn't even that worried about Varya.

Think about someone _siccing_ the Goodyear Blimp on you. Aren't you just terrified?

"I suppose that answers that question," I muttered, watching the two groups diverge. "But it only leads to more."

Varya returned to my side, eyes never leaving the shapes in the trees.

"They won't come out into the parking lot."

"Yeah, I know," I said, rubbing my chin. "Must be the steel railing between the lot and the park. They won't voluntarily get near steel. They'll stay over there in the trees."

"Then that gives you time."

"To?"

"You're a wizard, I assume you know air magic. Enough to perhaps blow them out over the water? Then we can kerblam them. No one gets hurt."

"Unless it's the antimatter option."

"Could you send them home?"

"Back to the Nevernever? I guess I could, but I have no idea where an opening here would lead in the Nevernever. Could be in a nice little Summer garden. Could be twenty thousand leagues under the sea. And openings to the Nevernever are two-way streets. Probably best not to risk it."

"Then what do you suggest?"

"I'm a wizard. I know air magic. Enough to maybe blow them out over the water."

"That is a remarkable plan, O great and powerful Oz."

"Isn't it? Sometimes I even amaze myself."

"Truly awe inspiring."

I strode forward towards the fizzlekerblams, Varya on my heels. While we had chatted the ponderous zeppelin-like beings had slowly drifted back together again. 

Neither Varya nor I had mentioned just leaving. It'd be easy enough to escape. But unless their owner came and collected them, something I very much doubted, they could hurt someone. A lot of someones, potentially. A herd of explosive Sidhe grab bags let loose in Lower Hutcheson Field? Not on my watch. Apparently Varya felt the same.

Stopping right on the edge of the parking lot, I studied them. They looked like inflated sea elephants. Covered in piebald patches of hair, with bovine faces. They came in a variety of colors, all of them bright and cheerful. Red with purple spots, green with yellow stripes, blue with orange squiggles. It was like some sort of demented circus clown's balloon bouquet. Little fuzzy paws stuck out, two front, two back.

If they weren't just so damned weird they might have been cute. Those big round black eyes staring emptily at me, and no sound, absolutely no sound. 

I extended my staff in front of me, poured my will into it, and whispered " _Vento servitas._ "

I directed the very light, very careful breeze to the west of them, my left. I made sure to put a lot of air in between the spell and the fizzles. Gingerly I put in a little more will and strengthened it, and they began moving, bumping into each other. Twenty minutes passed. 

"They are moving, but not very quickly. This is not a private place, Harry."

"I know that. But don't rush me. You rush a miracle man, you get lousy miracles."

I clenched my teeth. I was not built for the tortoise. I was all about the hare. Keeping this absolute control over something as whimsical as air over such a long period of time was draining, both mentally and magically. 

However, slowly and inexorably I drove them towards the lake.

"What the hell?"

It sounded like an old man's voice. Slurred, by alcohol or drugs, maybe. I grunted. Tried looking around to find the source. I really didn't want to stop the spell unless I had to. Air magic like this was all about momentum. If I stopped now, I wouldn't be able to get them going like this for another half an hour at least. If I could do it. Moving air is extremely difficult. It weighs a _lot_ , for one thing, and without an impetus it would just collapse.

"There," Varya said, voice low. "He's in the trees."

I snarled a few curses. "If flesh is a trigger, if clothing is a trigger, or hair, or—hell, sweat or halitosis or any damn thing like that…"

"I'll get him."

"Varya—don't—" But it was too late. She had darted off into the woods, closer to the fizzlekerblams, who were probably only about 100 feet from the lake. 

"Keep the spell going!" she called out behind her.

Sweating, starting to strain now, I kept playing cowboy to my little dogies. They'd been moving at a thundering pace of maybe two miles an hour, but when Varya crossed the line into the park from the lot, they started fighting me.

My relatively straight line of air suddenly became a containment measure as I kept pushing the stragglers back in.

Varya was fast, though, and in no time she had gotten to the little man who had come stumbling through the park, falling on his butt when he saw the fizzles.

I heard her low voice speak, and him shriek a protest in a harsh quaver. 

Three of the fizzles broke free and began a determined drift towards them.

I poured my will into the staff, and the runes began lighting up with a silvery glow. It matched the moonlight.

"Varya—" I got through gritted teeth.

"I know," she called back. "He refuses to come."

"Then pick his ass up and haul him! I can't hang on here forever!"

"Sir, if you would—" she gasped, and I saw her fall to the ground, the old man on top of her, his hands snatching at her clothes.

I dropped the spell and sprinted.

"Varya!"

"Harry!" she called back. "Catch him!"

"What?"

She got her long legs in between the two of them and jackknifed, sending him flying. He came hurtling towards me. I was so tempted to just stand to one side and let the old coot slam into the tree he was flying towards, but then I sighed and got in between them.

And slammed into the tree myself, landing in a thick tangle of brush, cutting off my sight of the fizzles and Varya. Oof. Girl got some leg power.

The old man was squirming and squalling against me. He reeked of B.O. on a scale I had not thought possible, cheap booze, and cigar smoke. He was strong for a vagrant, and it took me a minute to disentangle myself from him.

"Are you okay?" I snapped at him.

He shot me the bird and took off across the parking lot.

"Harry!"

"He's okay!"

"That's good. Now I think you should get out of here."

"What?"

"I seem to be stuck."

I crashed back through the undergrowth. Varya was still on the ground. She'd rolled over onto her stomach, and had braced herself up on her hands, straight-arming the ground. But that was as far as she'd gotten to her feet. I couldn't believe how calm her face was.

Fizzles were closing in on her, they were about twenty feet away.

I had no time to get another spell going to blow them away, not without actually touching them with magic. 

So I did the next best thing.

I closed the gap at a dead run and flung myself on top of her, spreading my duster out to cover us both. 

Her expression when she saw me launching myself at her was anything but calm. It was terrified.

I had a little while to see it. About five feet away from her I hit a wall. Time slowed. It was a bizarre sensation, and one I'd never hoped to feel again. Every major motor control I had stopped, gravity's effect stopped. Somebody had turned off physics. I was suspended in midair.

"Well…this is something."

"Isn't it?" Varya asked. "Harry…do these things chain react?"

"Yeah…" I said slowly. "They kinda do."

"And there are what, twelve?"

"Yep."

She closed her eyes. " _Bozemoi."_

It sounded more like an actual prayer than blasphemous.

The fizzlekerblams loomed behind her, crowding each other as they tried to get through the trees. Only now six sets of those eyes were fixed on me.

I saw her hands close slowly into fists, raking the moss beneath her fingers, and she lowered her head.

"Uh, Varya…whaddya doing?"

"Something. Don’t rush me," she strained. "You rush a miracle worker, you get lousy miracles."

Leaning over, she got her feet under her, and I'll be damned if she didn't stand up. Slowly, really slowly, but up. 

"Good idea. Get over to me if you can, and wrap yourself in my coat. It's enchanted."

She didn't reply. Obviously it was taking everything she had just to lift her foot.

I tried to move, but couldn't even twitch. She was on the ground, and had leverage I never would while I was floating. I used that lack of leverage on my more jumpy enemies. It was effective. 

Not so cool when I was the victim of it.

She managed a step. Fifteen seconds later, she managed another one.

Her hands were balled at her sides, her head down. She was panting hard. Sweat streamed down her skin. Her body was angled forward, like a sprinter at the start, or someone in a hurricane strength headwind. I also noticed her suit coat and silk shirt had been torn open. There were tears where the buttons had been ripped off.

Watching her gasping for air was doing really spectacular things to her generous cleavage. She had a satiny shell pink bra with lace, and a little bow in the center of it.

Look, I tried, okay? But I am a man with man's primitive brain just as much as I am a wizard with higher facility for magic.

Besides, it was either enjoy the show like a maniac or build a crimson fury over the fact that the old bastard she'd risked her life to save had sexually assaulted her. And she _still_ saved him. Pick which one you think is better in this situation.

I do not like it when women get hurt. I do not like it, Sam I am.

It looked like she might have a heart attack from the effort, but I didn't know what else to do than to encourage her. The fizzles were too close, two having finally popped through the trees, the others getting in line to follow.

"This is not happening." I told myself. "I am _not_ getting blown up by killer cow piñatas from hell!"

Agonizing minutes passed. I couldn’t tell who was going to make it first, Varya, or the fizzles.

It was kind of a tie.

Varya reached me, put her hands on my shoulders, and pulled herself up, like she was getting out of a pool. 

The fizzles were crowded around her now, I couldn’t tell how many.

She wrapped her arms around my head, her legs around my ribs, curling herself around me. 

A fizzlekerblam bobbed into her shoulder.

I kind of enjoyed the sensation of having my face pressed against what it was against until the sound.

Fizzle. Like a lit fuse on one of those old cartoon TNT barrels.

Kerblam.

My head rang from the shock, but not badly. An M80 firecracker going off too close. The kerblam of the fizzlekerblams was just that. An almost cartoony style kerblam.

Bubbles erupted around us. Mounds and mounds of fluffy white soap bubbles. 

Fizzle.

Kerblam.

Howling winds engulfed us, whipping at my legs, her body, but she clung to me like a leech. I could hear fabric tearing.

Fizzle.

Kerblam.

_"Hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my Ragtime Gal! Send me a kiss by wire, baby my heart's on fire!"_

I was absolutely certain there was a snappily dressed amphibian singing it.

A ton of beanie babies. A storm of static electricity. A nine or ten year old kid in a gasmask who asked, "Are you my mummy?" Thorny bracken twisting around my limbs, only to be broken away by a deluge of pink champagne.

Then silence. I heard the croak of a bullfrog. I heard the kid ask it if it was his mummy.

I started trying to twist, get myself around her. By my count, there was still one left.

"Harry, don't move."

"I need to get my coat around you."

"I'll be—"

Fizzle.

Kerblam.

Another shower of liquid with an astringent smell.

It came down from behind and slightly above her. I barely got hit by it at all, and what I did get hit with landed on my duster.

We fell to the ground in a thud, and she wrenched herself away from me, ripping off her suit jacket and shirt, flinging them away, her pants quickly following. 

I bounced to my feet and stared at the clothes.

The _clothes,_ people _._

Sad.

But her clothes were doing interesting things, like smoking and turning black before ashing away into nothing.

Ah. Acid.

Spinning to face her, I took her arms.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. It hit the center of my back. My suit protected me long enough that it didn't touch my skin. If we had gotten that one early on…"

I shivered. That would have been a whole lot of not fun.

"Are you well, Harry?" she asked, eyes anxiously searching me for any injury.

I was soaked, shocked, scratched, sticky, windblown, and annoyed, but otherwise okay. She saw the rips in my trousers and hissed, bending over to take a closer look.

With a blush I whipped off my duster and covered her with it.

Although I had to say I had an appreciation for lacy edged, satiny shell pink bras and thongs. It was a matching set. And her figure was every bit as statuesque and curving as I had thought.

She straightened and looked at me, with a wry smile, sliding her arms into the duster. It was too big for her, but in that "I'm wearing my boyfriend's work shirt" kind of way, not the "I'm playing dress up in my daddy's clothes" kind of way, which is usually how it looked when I had to lend it to someone.

Her hair was remarkably unmussed for what we'd gone through, only a few thick tendrils had escaped. They went nearly to her waist, although they were dark and matted with dirt, moss, champagne, and soap.

"What about you?"

"I'll live. I think, except for the acid, you actually got the worst of it with your legs."

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you."

"No, you protected an innocent. That was more important."

Grumbling, I remembered the old man. "He wasn't that innocent."

"What about—" she looked significantly at the frog and the kid. The frog was just a frog, giving the occasional ribbit. The gasmasked kid was poking it with a stick.

"They're not real. They're constructs. They'll melt when the sun comes up, and frankly, I don't really give a crap about them right now."

"You're angry."

"Getting there pretty quick."

"My hotel? We can get cleaned up there. And you can call your mechanic."

"And maybe get a line on what in the hell just happened. Is there a Pizza Spress that delivers to your hotel?"

"I have no idea. We'll find out. The only fast food restaurant I know of nearby is a Burger King."

I closed my eyes for a moment in anticipatory bliss. The steak sandwich felt like days ago. 

"Hail to the King, baby."

  


 


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hot water and Burger King. Life doesn't get any better than this.
> 
> Rough draft.

#  Chapter Six

Needless to say we got a few strange looks walking into the slick white and red interior of the Sax hotel. Tastefully modern, the Chicago Sax Hotel was a nice place. We were just a tad out of place, me in my shredded trousers and shoes, her in my duster like some sort of Andersen fairy tale gone modern. Both of us bore Burger King takeout bags and large drinks. 

She got a Double Whopper with cheese. And bacon. And onion rings. And a Coke. And had asked for extra Zesty Sauce.

I could so appreciate that in a woman.

Shoving the bag into my arms she went to the front desk and got her key card. We'd retrieved her attaché case from the _Beetle_ before we started, so she had her identification and such. 

The hotel clerks were either exceptionally trained or native Chicagoans. They treated her like royalty, just like they treated every other guest. Didn't bat an eye at her bedraggled appearance.

"Do you want to trust the elevators?"

"What floor are you on?"

"Seventh."

"Stairs."

She nodded and we hit the stairwell. That didn't draw too many curious glances, remarkably enough. Apparently a lot of health conscious people preferred the stairs over elevators or escalators and I cheered them for it. You go, Aerobically Aware Stair Climber, make things socially easier for me.

"You have a suite," I said as we emerged onto the floor. Each room on that floor was a King Suite.

"Yes. I wasn't sure if I would have to hold meetings in my quarters, so I wanted to make sure I had room."

"I should have asked for more," I muttered. We got halfway down the hall and she stopped, giving me a pointed look.

"What?" I demanded.

"Electronic key card."

"Oh. I'll wait here." Hopefully I hadn't blown the little plastic card already. As tired as I was, I doubted it, but you never know. I went through credit cards faster than toilet paper. I hadn't even tried an ATM card. Not after I learned my bank would only issue three replacements a year. Living in an increasingly technological society is no joke for a wizard. After my bank had been bought out by a big chain and went nearly all online, it had taken me forever to find another one that had actual people that would actually talk to me and actually answer questions.

Me and delicate, intricate Automatic Teller Machines. Not a good mix.

She hurried down the hall tried it, then turned back to me with a triumphant look. I joined her and we went in.

"You shower first," I told her.

"No. You first. You are injured. We need to get those cuts cleaned."

"Varya. You are my client."

"Harry. You are very tall."

That made me blink. She took advantage of my confusion and bodily shoved me into the bathroom.

Sighing, I shook my head, and stripped down. 

Hot water blasted out of the shower head.

Nirvana.

I guess it was a good thing I knew she was waiting out there, otherwise I would have spent an indeterminate amount of time trying to use up all the hot water of a deluxe accommodation hotel. No electricity in my apartment, no gas either. I think the reasons are obvious. Electricity go zap, gas go BOOM. Not good.

Limiting myself to a measly twenty minutes, I tumbled out of the shower into a bathroom blissfully filled with steam and found an extra tall fluffy white bathrobe waiting for me. With slippers that could have doubled as canoes for a family of eight.

She'd come in while I was showering? 

I was entirely uncertain how to feel about that.

Putting it off, I shrugged into the bathrobe, stuffed my feet in the slippers and went out into the living room of the suite. She was sitting on the couch, chowing down on burger and onion rings. Several already empty sauce containers were scattered around her.

"Mine?"

"I put it in the microwave, to help keep it warm. Don’t worry, I unplugged it and all the other appliances."

I retrieved my rightfully earned treasure and sat down next to her.

"I must be a mess," she said, with a half-hearted gesture towards her hair.

"Understandably so. You went through some pretty high grade weirdness out there."

"It wasn't that bad."

And…she meant it.

Oh yeah. She was chasing down an archdemon. I guess on a scary-o-meter fizzlekerblams are pretty far down on the list. Deadly, but more surreal than frightening. Like a Dali painting and a Dr. Seuss book got together and spawned while dropping acid.

I took a huge bite of my burger and my eyes just about rolled up into the back of my head in sheer ecstasy.

"Are you all right?" she asked, amusement coloring her words.

"Mff fnn." I chewed, swallowed, and tried again. "I'm fine. Way, way more than fine. Hot shower, a bathrobe made from clouds, Burger King, and a beautiful woman. I'm not sure that the fizzlekerblam didn't kill me and I went to heaven."

"If you are in heaven then do I get to keep the duster?"

I flapped my hand. "And the staff. Take it. Take it all!"

"I think I'll just take a shower instead," she said, cleaning up her fast food detritus and heading for the bathroom herself.

While she was gone I thought about the things I still needed to do. I needed to call Mike and get the _Beetle_ towed and figure out a loaner of some sort. I needed to get home and feed and walk Mouse, and feed and let Mister out for the night. I needed to find some clothes. And I needed to order a Pizza Spress pizza.

I finished off my food and just lolled on the couch, body going utterly slack in perfect relaxation. This was a good lolling couch, I decided. It gets top lolling marks. I must have been more wrung out from wrenching around all that air than I thought. I was getting a little loopy. Loopier.

A gentle hand taking the Coke cup out of my hand woke me up. I started, and another hand pressed me softly back down.

"Ssh, Harry, it's me," her low voice was soothing, like a warm balm. "I didn't mean to wake you."

I stared up at her with sleep filled eyes.

"An angel," I mumbled appreciatively.

She paused for a moment, a pained but pleased little smile flitting over those perfectly shaped lips. Bottom lip a little fuller, a little poutier than the top one, both a deep deep pink, like you find in dark pink roses. 

Reaching up a lazy hand, I rubbed some of her hair between my fingers. Corn silk soft, rippling waves of silver blonde that spilled thickly over the white of the bathrobe. It was dry, and surrounded her face like a…well…like a halo. Some of it spilled over her arms like a platinum waterfall and splashed onto me. 

Those blue, blue eyes, eyes the color of sky kissed crystal, framed by long curling white lashes. They tipped up slightly at the corners. Her brows were feathery, smoothed against her forehead, following the arches over her eyes. 

I could smell her smell, that clean floral smell, beneath the jasmine of the hotel shampoo.

"You are so lovely," I slurred.

That nigh-divine face set with a determined firming of the graceful slope of her jaw.

" _Harry._ "

That made me snap fully awake. 

"Have you returned?" she asked with an amused half smile.

"Uh…yeah, but not for long. Where's the balcony?"

"Why?"

"So I can throw myself off of it."

She laughed, that husky noise from her throat, and I shivered. "Don't be embarrassed. I am flattered."

"You're not upset?"

"You just called me an angel and gazed at me in adoring worship. Who would be upset by that?"

I winced. More laughter.

With twinkling eyes, she sat down next to me. "Put your legs up on the coffee table please."

I did so.

She opened a little kit, pulling out gauze, bandages, and a little bottle of something.

"That's not iodine, is it?"

"No. It's some sort of non-stinging antibiotic ointment."

"Okay." I relaxed.

The question radiated off of her as she shook the bottle, but I was a little distracted for a moment by the way the movement displaced the neck of her robe.

Pig, thy name is Dresden. _Porcino servitas._

"The females in my life like to punish me with iodine."

"They care for you a great deal."

"Yeah, they do. It's pretty great."

"And do you not have a particular female?"

"A what? Oh, no." My eyes fell to my hands, which were twiddling with the belt on my robe. "No. I don't. Not anymore."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"It's a perfectly legitimate question. I'll toss it back at you."

"No, I have no particular females in my life."

"Uh…that's…um…" The thought was confusing; embarrassing because I got it wrong, and wildly arousing all at the same time.

"Oh, Harry," she said, chuckling. "I have no particular female because I don't feel that way for females. I have no particular male, either."

"That's good."

"Yes," she said firmly. "It is."

Point received.

She wet a cotton ball with the ointment and began dabbing it at my cuts. True to advertising, it didn't sting. It was just a little cold. 

"I called your Mike and got your car towed. He wanted to know if you needed a loaner. I didn't know so I told him you would call back."

"How did you get the number?"

"I called every garage in the book that had Mike in the name."

"How long, exactly, was I asleep?"

"About an hour. I was lucky and found the correct garage on the fifth call."

"Ah."

"I took the liberty to order you some clothes. Nothing spectacular. I looked on the labels of your shirt and trousers to get the sizes. They should be here any minute."

"What'd you get me? Something super smexy I hope."

"That depends. How smexy do you find blue jeans and another button down shirt?"

"Indescribably smexy."

"Then I chose well. There is a Pizza Spress that delivers to the hotel."

"God, marry me. Or at least come work for me. Hell, do both."

"I'm afraid I already have a vocation."

"That blows."

"You said the fizzlekerblams were fae, right? Wyld fae?"

"Yeah. From the Nevernever."

"Then I cannot understand why they would go after me. Ilyvich has never had any truck with fairies before, nor he him. They detest one another."

"And I don't have anyone that I know of gunning for me, either. There's usually something that starts the ball rolling. Usually it's someone asking me to do them a favor." I couldn't keep the growl out of my voice. "Or ordering me to."

"Ordering?"

"Yeah. It's tricky. I got into debt with a pretty powerful Sidhe. She sold my debt to Queen Mab."

"The Winter Queen?"

"The one and only. I owe her a favor, and she wants me to be her Winter Knight. Bad."

"That does not sound at all pleasant."

"It isn't. Trust me. I know the current one." He was ensconced in a prison of ice, tortured by Mab every day, ripped between pleasure and pain. If I was ever tempted to take that power, all I had to do was think of Lloyd Slate, Winter Knight, hung up in Arctis Tor, begging me to kill him. There was no way I would put myself in line for that. Ever.

I felt her hand rest on my bare knee, bringing me back from terrible memories.

"Then who could have sent them? I have no issue with anyone but Ilyvich."

"You said Ilyvich was last seen at a shindig thrown by John Marcone, right?"

"Yes. Two weeks ago."

"Then you probably have an issue with him. And I know I do, but he's never come after me without a really clear reason before."

"What would a businessman…ah. _La Cosa Nostra_?"

"Yeah, except nobody's called it that since 1976. They don't really even say mafia anymore, and gangsters are kids bawling out rhymes with their pants down around their knees. Now it's just organized crime. Sounds a lot more civilized, doesn't it?"

"I don't think Ilyvich would join with such a powerful man. He prefers to lead, subvert, or destroy."

"Marcone has a way of making people, and creatures, do things they wouldn't ordinarily do."

"Like what?"

"Like he got me to make him and his organization a recognized state of the Unseelie Accords. First vanilla human to ever do so."

"Long story?"

"You have no idea."

"So what do we do now?"

"Now," I said. "We order pizza."


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry tries to talk to a friend of his. A friend of his who would, literally, do anything for pizza.
> 
> All hail the Za Lord!

 

# Chapter Seven

"You sure this is all right? I hope you have insurance."

"I chose the maximum liability option."

"That's good, because this car is probably not going to last very long."

Varya smiled as she sat behind the wheel, the green luminosity from the dash giving her an ethereal, otherworldly look. I sat beside her, a pizza box slowly baking my thighs.

"I did ask them for a nuts-and-bolts model, but this was all they had."

"Yeah, rental agencies generally don't use clunkers. They don't have wizards in mind when selecting their inventory."

The deep burgundy Jeep Cherokee Trailhawk whispered over the asphalt, and seemed to be mostly holding its own against the power of kablooey. Varya had reached over and unplugged the GPS after it told us our destination, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest, was on the right about six times. The radio had never been turned on, but the digital clock had spelled out some Cthuloid propaganda and given up the ghost. 

The engine purred, the handling was fine, and everything else seemed to be in order, and we'd been driving about twenty minutes. I started to relax as the demise of the SUV didn't seem imminent.

You'd think I'd be used to getting stranded on the side of the road. I wasn't.

I was dressed in my black duster, with the jeans and white button down shirt Varya had purchased for me. She had even gotten me some boxers and socks, along with some pretty darn nice work boots. They were steel toed. Apparently she was less than pleased with the attack from creatures of the Sidhe.

I did not want to think about her picking up my underwear to get the size, though.

She was dressed in jeans as well, with one of those cashmere turtlenecks that hugs every little nook and cranny in teal, a short black lambskin jacket that fell to just her mid-torso, kind of like what Rogue from the X-men used to wear before they turned her into an airline stewardess. Slick black riding boots, no heel, completed the ensemble. She'd bound her hair up again, but loosely, a tousled pile on the top of her head, stabilized with two slender chopsticks. 

Harry liked.

"Go ahead and ask."

"I am not going to ask."

"You know you want to," I sing-songed.

"Curiosity killed the cat."

"Satisfaction brought it back."

"I refuse to give you the pleasure."

"Oh, come on. What could it hurt? Just ask me!"

"Obviously you are dying to tell me."

"Yeah, but it's no fun if you don't ask."

She sighed, shaking her head. "Harry, why do you have a pizza." 

"That didn't sound very question-like."

A sidelong glance of dry amusement.

"Okay, okay, if you're going to keep nagging me. I got the pizza because it is my duty to my vassals to provide. _Noblesse oblige._ "

"Thank you. That was edifying."

"You really don't want to know?"

"I've learned it's generally better not to inquire into the secrets of the supernaturally inclined."

"That's—true, actually."

"And I'd much rather you told me where we were going."

"Just keep driving, it's not much farther."

I gave her a few more directions and eventually we ended up in a somewhat run-down residential area a bit of a ways from the city center. Too close to have suburb money, too far for the multitude of renewal projects providing…well…renewal to many of the run-down parts of the burg. It wasn't a drug den or gang territory, though, just old.

It was also about a mile from my house. Far enough away in case we got jumped by another gaggle from the Party City section of Tartarus, but close enough that we had a handy place to escape to.

"Pull in there and stop."

There was an alley between two sagging, four-story buildings. The kind with the bottom floor zoned for business, and upper stories for residential apartments. The building on the right still had a functional coin-laundry operating, but the one on the left had been boarded up for years.

"Come on," I said, hefting the pizza and my staff.

She looked at my full hands and opened her own door.

"I could have managed," I told her.

"So can I."

"Don't make it a habit."

She just smiled.

I moved deeper into the alley, setting the pizza on the ground and flipping open the lid.

Then I looked at Varya.

"Um…would you mind standing by the car for just a minute?"

I swear, every single other person I know would have given me fifteen different rashes of shit for asking that. Demanding to know why, protests about being close for safety, they could protect themselves, you name it, I've heard it.

She just nodded, turned around, and glided back to the car.

That…left me kind of hanging. I'd been prepared for the barrage, and it hadn't happened, leaving a kind of mental vacuum. I almost fell forward. It took me a second to readjust.

Then, facing the pizza, I gathered my will, and whispered out a name, three times.

Wind blew through the alley with surprising force, but it was natural. Not a response to me. The way Chicago had been constructed had turned the entire city into row after row of wind tunnels, even this far out.

Brow wrinkling, I called out again, injecting a little more will into it. Three times.

Nothing. Not a peep.

What in the blue hell?

I eyed the pizza, wondering if it were tainted somehow. 

I tried again, this time using my staff as a focus.

"And thrice I name thee! Heed my call!" I thundered, staff blazing with runes in front of me, the wind flaring my duster out behind me. It was very dramatic.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I said shortly, dropping my arms. The wind died, leaving my coat hanging limp. "This has never happened to me before. I swear. It could happen to any wizard. All wizards have a bad night now and then. It's perfectly normal. Sometimes things just don't function like they're supposed to."

"We _are_ talking about your summoning, yes?"

I blinked, wrenching my head around to glare at her.

" _Yes_ we are talking about my summoning!"

"What didn't happen?"

"The summoning part of the summoning. I have a fairy I call upon regularly, named Toot-toot."

"Toot-toot?"

"Well, that's the name he gives to mortals."

"Ah, you didn't want me to hear his true name, which is why you asked me to stand back here."

"You just won a kewpie doll. Yeah. And pizza always works. The little bugger loves the stuff. _And_ he's supposed to be the commander of the  Za Lord army! Hell's bells, where is he?"

The question she didn't ask just about hit me between the shoulder blades.

"Za Lord. Pizza Lord. Toot told me he liked it once when I trapped him in a circle. I've been bribing the little ingrate with it ever since."

"You've worked with him frequently?"

"I _used to_ work with him frequently."

"He likes you?"

"He's devoted to the giver of cheesy, crusty goodness."

"And the pizza always works?"

"Yes. You should see the way he—oh. You're thinking that maybe he can't come. Something is preventing him."

"I had that thought, yes."

"That's…not good. It would have to be something pretty powerful to keep a fae from answering the call of his true name spoken three times. Even a teeny dink like Toot."

I winced. The poor little guy was probably pretty uncomfortable right now. I'd been a little insistent towards the end. "They're normally beneath anyone's notice. It's one of the reasons why I use him so much. Everyone else considers him too insignificant to bother with. But he and his kind are everywhere, and see nearly everything. The trick is getting them to remember it, and motivating them to share it with you."

She didn't mention and I refused to think about any other reason why Toot-toot wouldn't answer my summons.

"Is there another one you could try?"

"Toot is the only little fairy I have the true name of. I've got quite a few true names for other beings, but they're not nearly so innocuous or benign. Well crap. One more thing to add to the things to do list."

"Finding him?"

I picked the pizza back up and turned to her. "Oh, yeah. I'm going to find him. And I'm going to have words with whomever or whatever is screwing with him."

First me and Varya, and now Toot-toot. Whoever this was, he (or she, never let it be said that I am not an equal opportunity kind of guy when it comes to petty evil jerkwads) was a special kind of petty low.

But not demonically low. Demons were more of a show up, scare the crap out of everyone, throw a bunch of hellfire around kind of show. They were Alice Cooper and I kept running into Captain Kangaroo on a bender.

"Let's go."

"Where to now?"

"My place."

  


 


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another strange attack after the summon. 
> 
> Strange even by Harry's standards.

# Chapter Eight

We'd made it halfway back to the Jeep when I heard it. Heard it, but couldn't identify it.

"What is that?" she asked, cocking her head to one side.

"I have no idea," I responded. "I was about to ask you."

We both stopped, stock-still, trying to identify the noise.

It was a thrumming, beating sound. Like a stadium full of people whispering out the rhythm of a drum. A fast drum. Or two dozen Apache helicopters in stealth mode.

And it was getting louder.

"I think it might be best to be surrounded by the steel of that Jeep," I told her. 

She didn't bother responding, just immediately took off for the SUV.

As soon as we reached it, we heard the doors lock. I rattled the handle on the passenger side as she dug the keys out and pushed the button on the fob. When she tried the key in the lock, it wouldn't go in.

"Harry!" she tossed the keys at me and darted around the hood. I tossed the pizza aside and caught them out of the air.

"No good!" I told her. "It's a trick I've used before. Someone superglued the keyholes."

"Then I would suggest we find some other shelter."

No point in mentioning the obvious; that we'd been thirty feet or fewer away from the Jeep the entire time, and someone had still managed this.

The streetlights from the street behind the Jeep went out.

I glanced behind us, grabbed her hand, and shouted, " _Go!"_

Again no hesitation, she just fell in beside me, her stride lengthening to match my own.

It seemed a good idea considering what I had just seen behind us.

Moths.

Thousands and thousands of moths. That hushed, thunderous drumbeat was their amassed wings.

Now, before you start snickering at the great wizard Harry Dresden, Warden of the White Council, Rider of Zombiedino, Creator of the mighty fire spell _Flickum Bicus_ , running for his life away from moths, let me explain.

First of all, there are such a thing as poisonous moth bites in the fairy world, while there are not in the mortal realm. Second off, with that many they could actually smother us, and we would probably end up swallowing at least a few. There are plenty of poisonous-to-ingest moths in both demesnes. Third off, it was freaking _creepy_. Would _you_ want to be engulfed in thousands of tiny wings, furry bodies, feathery antennae, and tickling legs? Yeah, I didn't think so. So shut up.

"Hold this!" I told her, passing over my staff. She snatched it deftly with her free hand. 

Grabbing my blasting rod out of my duster, I aimed it back over my shoulder, gathered my will, and shouted, _"Fuego!"_

Runes lit up the length of the wood, and a cone of flame culminating in a thirty food diameter of fire shot out of it.

The moths made no sound as the fire took a huge bite out of their number. But it didn't seem to matter. 

Remember when I said thousands and thousands? It was looking more like millions. My fire spells could be pretty potent, but if we wanted the buildings to be left standing it was probably not a good idea to try and take them out that way. 

I had pretty much one philosophy when it came to fire magic; go big or go home. But they did cost me, and I wouldn't be able to destroy them all in a single, catastrophic blast anyway. Or three. Then we'd be trapped in burning buildings with who knows how many people still living in them, and I'd be out of juice.

We reached the end of the alley, which led to another one. The trash pick-up lane behind the buildings. I pulled her left and she gamely came alongside. 

The moths followed us. Risking a look back over my shoulder I felt a definitive shiver. They were a literal insect tsunami, flooding out of the alley and crashing into the back wall before coalescing and changing direction. 

E=MC2. They didn't have much individual M, but they sure had a lot of it combined. When the mothnami hit the back wall of the alley, I could hear the rumbling crash of displaced brickwork, the showering thuds of the masonry hitting the pavement. 

"Trade!" 

Somehow we managed to exchange my staff for my rod, I figured it would be easier than trying to slip the rod back through the loop inside my duster.

I tried another tack.

" _Vento servitas!"_ This was not the oh-so-delicate threads of air I had netted in order to gather and push the fizzlekerblams earlier. This was a rush of hurricane force winds, directly at the oncoming horde.

It smashed into it, but just like the fire, was overcome by sheer incalculable numbers.

"Success?" she called.

"None!" 

This was annoyingly not good. We were faster than the mothnami, but not by much, and as it built momentum it built speed. I wouldn't be able to get enough of a lead in order to set my feet for the type of spell I'd need to stop it, or delay it, or destroy it, or just to keep it off us. My shield bracelet would work for a while, but it wouldn't last long against how all-encompassing and big it was. 

"Left or right?" she asked, almost conversationally.

"Left!"

We zagged left, returning to the main street and out of the back alley. The mothnami followed us, rising up and crashing into the middle of the street before shooting off after us, pulling a ninety degree turn.

If we could get to my place, we would be okay, and my shield should hold out long enough to get my door open. My front door had been experiencing operational issues since a zombie attack.

"You got any ideas?"

"I fight an archdemon, Harry! Moths are not his style!"

"That doesn't answer the question!"

"You won't like it!" she warned.

I jerked a thumb back at the mass of flutter behind us.

"I'm willing to try just about anything!"

"Break left!" 

We pivoted in tandem and hauled ashes into another waste collection alley.

"Oh…no…"

"Do you have any better ideas?" she asked.

"Can't we just keep running?"

"Inside, wizard!"

And she stopped, flipped open the lid to an industrial steel dumpster, and stood expectantly.

I paused.

The mothnami did its impression of the Pacific Ocean pulling a Tron bike left turn.

Howling words that would get me banned from a good many churches, I flung myself up and over, my arms wrapping around her, my shield bracelet springing to life around us.

The lid clanged down.

Apparently trash pickup had been that day. It was empty, and I landed belly to belly on top of Varya, who had managed to twist so she'd land on her back. We both grunted, wind knocked from us. I maneuvered up onto my elbows.

The cuff of my duster had caught my shield bracelet, a device I'd made of braided wire using several different metals, and adorned with charms in the shapes of medieval shields. A silvery blue light surrounded around us as I infused it with my will and it extended out, conforming to the interior of the dumpster. Heavy gauge steel or not, dumpsters were not used gently, and were coated in layer after layer of corrosive chemicals, like carbonated soft drinks. Most of them had a hole or two.

With the dumpster providing the bulk of the protection, I would be able to keep out any moths that managed to trickle in for a pretty long time. As I nearly gagged on the smell, I desperately hoped that I wouldn't have to.

I looked down at Varya, she looked up at me with her usual composure. Despite the nauseating odor of rot and decay around us, I became extremely aware of my weight pressing down on her, and how she felt beneath me. And how she felt as we lay chest to chest was telling me she was either really cold or really something else.

There was a heartbeat or two while my brain came to terms with the influx of sensual data. 

_Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day. Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day. Concentrate on the stink. Do_ not _embarrass yourself here._

Then the dumpster rang as the mothnami slammed into it. It was like being inside Quasimodo's church bell. My shriek as my eardrums were assaulted added to bedlam. Then it was somewhat muffled as I felt pressure on either side of my head.

Varya, shoulders scrunched up around her own ears, had covered mine with her hands. I gave her a grateful wince.

We both felt the dumpster move, shoved away from the wall what felt like several feet. My elbows slid out from under me in the slimy muck and I barely managed to avoid slamming my forehead into the bridge of her nose. My shield started getting tiny pinpricks against it, nothing too concerning, but it was notice that the moths had found openings. The cacophonous beating of soft wings drew back, then the dumpster clanged again. We were jerked as the congealed casters groaned, skidding against the pavement.

Four more times the mothnami gathered and flung itself against our stinking refuge like a giant's fist, and four more times our Metro Waste fortress held. 

The booming thrum faded away. 

She cradled my head in her hands, our faces inches apart. In the dim light of my shield I could see a slight flush highlighting the pale skin of her cheek. Her eyes were deep and mysterious, but I could feel them on me in a way that curled my toes.

"You okay!?" I pretty much yelled in that headphones-on-speaking-too-loud way. "I landed on you pretty hard!"

Oh, you know it. Dresden's so smooth he slides uphill.

"Nothing broken," she said, dropping her arms. Unfortunately, despite the darkness, I could still see the vastly amused smile on her lips.

"Don't move," I told her. "As much as I love our current position, our location leaves much to be desired. I don't want to step on you, so hang on."

Cautiously I levered my feet under me and put my back against the lid of the dumpster, staff in one hand, ready to let loose with a firestorm if I even saw a leaf fluttering to the ground.

The lid creaked up and I took a wary glance around. 

My perspective was now looking out from the middle of the alley, but other than that nothing seemed out of place. No mothnami, not even the usual stragglers around the street lamp I could see.

"I think it's all clear. Go ahead and stand up. Stay close to me. My shield managed to protect us from the gunge, too, and I think we'd both like it to keep doing so."

"Most definitely," she said, hunching beside me.

Together we flipped the lid back, my staff at the ready, her with my blasting rod available to my hand.

Nada. 

We clambered out of the dumpster and I dispelled my shield. My shield had kept us from even being touched by the nastiness inside the dumpster, and the smell dissipated quickly in the chill night air.

Slowly we made our way back to the Jeep, eyes and ears on high alert. Once we were at the vehicle she leaned over, inspecting the lock on the passenger side door. 

"I don't see anything blocking the entry, no superglue," she said, then tried the key again. "It's still not going in."

So very, very many rejoinders sprang to mind, but I maturely ignored them all and focused on the matter at hand. 

Interesting…someone, a very clever, talented someone, had put a little teeny ward on each lock. A simple barrier, but not something someone would have noticed unless they were looking for it, like I was now. Definitely not someone on the run from an ocean liner's worth of moths. 

The locks themselves, I noticed, were chromed. That meant that a powerful fairy would have been able to put the wards there. But why would they? Powerful fairies would just summon up some of the heavy hitters of fae, like trolls or ogres, and there were enough of them to go around.

Moths, though…that smelled like Summer, although a wyld or a Winter probably would have been able to pull it off. 

"I could try something, but it might kablooey the whole Jeep," I told her. "The joker who locked the doors with magic already took out the electronics for the automatic locks."

"Will they open?"

"If I can dispel the wards without hexing the whole vehicle, yeah. The physical mechanism shouldn't be affected. That's just a simple lever system."

"I would appreciate it if you would try. It's better than walking," she said. "Particularly after two attacks."

"Yeah…" Something about the attacks, the timing of them, the method of them, Toot-toot pulling a Houdini…I shook my head. Leaning down, I eyeballed the lock, leaned my staff towards it and whispered " _Solvos_."

A hairline bit of will, as narrow as I could make it, touched the lock. I never would have been able to do it without my staff. My to go specialty was destructive evocation. Drawing in energy, fusing it with my will, and releasing it with a boost for a big bada boom. Delicate and subtle it was not. I needed a focus for the magic requiring a lighter touch, like my shield bracelet and blasting rod, along with my staff. Otherwise I could never be sure of the result.

I felt something give, and the pinhead ward dropped.

"I don't recommend doing that for the other locks. Just let me get in and open the driver's side door. The barriers are weak and will dispel at dawn anyway."

"You're the wizard," she said, going around to the driver's side door.

"That's what I keep hearing," I said, climbing in and leaning over to pull the handle.  



	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They return to Harry's apartment, where he tries to talk to her about this whatever-it-is between them. With less than stellar results.

# Chapter Nine

"It's not much, but it's home," I said cheerfully as she pulled into the space in front of the older two story house where I lived.

"I think it's lovely."

"I don’t live on the first floor. I live in the basement."

"I'm sure it's more than adequate."

"Are you always this easy going?"

She paused, in the process of taking the key out of the ignition. "What do you mean?"

"My office is a shambles, my car is held together with spit and baling wire. I live in a basement with no electricity. Fizzlekerblams and mothnamis aside, you saw my underwear. Does anything ever phase you?"

She gave me a very direct look.

"Demons."

And she yanked the key out of the ignition and opened the door.

She didn't quite slam it shut behind her.

"Wow…hope these boots are mint flavored," I muttered, feeling like a world class heel. The flash of ire, the first I'd seen from her all night, was like I'd just taken the ice bucket challenge.

I climbed out, it was a lot easier than getting out of the _Beetle_ , that's for sure. My knees didn't even twinge that much, a chronic problem for tall guys. I moved to where she was standing on the sidewalk that led to the entrance.

"I'm sorry about that."

"No, Harry, I am." She expelled a big breath. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I know you were just…"

"Horsing around?"

"Yes. This business with Ilyvich has me more tense than I had thought. Or maybe it's these nonsensical attacks. Or maybe it's because of y—" She clammed up like someone with a Star Wars: Episode Seven script about to leak a spoiler.

"I'm around back," I said quietly.

She nodded and followed me.

We got to the top of the stairs that led down to my apartment.

"Hold onto this," I said to her, handing her my staff. "If Cindy Lou Who pops up, whack her with it. Stay here for just a minute."

"Wards?"

"Cat."

I trundled down and unlocked the door, then twisted and heaved on the knob. I managed to hook my fingers around the edge and hauled it open about six inches. The solid steel door squealed against the cement like a dying thing.

It just hadn't ever been right since zombies had ripped it out of the housing. To be fair to the zombies, I had also picked it up with a pretty big surge of force and used it as a battering ram on them. It wasn't all their fault.

I'd tried to reset it, but it was still a chore moving it. Poor Molly had to literally set her back to it. At least it would tell me if someone was trying to break in. Hard to sleep through a Godzilla roar alarm system.

Someone who had gotten through my layers and layers of wards without me knowing, anyway. To date there were only four people who could come and go from my apartment as they pleased. If anyone else tried, they'd have to deal with quite a few destructive surprises. And a lot more than previously. The zombies had thrown mass amounts of bodies at them and had blown them all in a relatively short amount of time. I had taken steps to make sure that didn't happen again.

Sure enough, the instant I stepped back there was the thud of a solid thirty pounds of cat slamming into my legs. I was expecting it, so had braced and didn't go sprawling.

"Heya, Mister." There had to have been some manx in there somewhere, he was huge. I'd found him as a kitten and he'd decided I was acceptable enough to share his company. At some point something had gotten his tail, and only a stub remained, but he seemed happy enough. Even with the dog taking up most of the space. He'd asserted his dominance when Mouse was still a tiny puppy. Some things stuck. Mouse never figured out he outweighed the cat nearly by an order of magnitude.

The body block/tackle/ram was his way of greeting me.

He just gave me an enigmatic look and jaunted up the stairs past Varya. He did pause as he passed her, though, giving her one of his inscrutable kitty stares. She stared back. He disappeared into the night.

"And that was Mister," I told her.

"He's…large."

"You ain't seen nothin' yet. Come on down."

And I could hear through the door excited panting. I managed to get it open far enough for people to pass through and saw looming in the darkness a hirsute Grey Hulk. Or maybe an older Sasquatch. 

"A temple dog," she commented, peering over my shoulder. It was an odd sensation. As I have previously stated, none of the women I regularly associated with were tall enough to do that. And when she spoke her breath tickled the side of my neck, her hair brushed my earlobe. 

It made me tingly. In a good kind of way.

"A big temple dog," I agreed, going inside, relieving her of my staff.

Once there, I muttered, " _Flickum Bicus"_ with a negligible amount of will _._ Over a dozen candles around the room sprang to life, yellow flames dancing atop them. In the fireplace, a special candle firestarter I'd made also lit, setting fire to the paper that would set the entire stack I had in there ablaze.

As soon as she walked in, her eyes went straight to my fireplace. Did she…freeze a little?

I didn't have time to ponder it as Mouse bounded over to me. Mouse looked kind of like the pictures I'd seen of a Caucasus Mountain Dog. There were subtle differences, like how Mouse could glow blue and rip apart vampires. But surface physical the likeness was there. I heard the door groan again and figured Varya was leaning against it to get it closed again. 

"You can leave it open," I said to her. The banshee wail stopped. "I know I was gone all day, sorry about that, buddy," I told Mouse, kneeling down in front of him.

He forgave me. And he proved it by immediately assaulting me with the kind of tongue and slobber that only a nearly two-hundred-eighty pound dog has. 

"Ack! Dog lips touched my lips!" I cried. "Get me Listerine! Get me iodine!" 

It was our thing. He sat back and wagged. 

"Mouse, this is Varya. Varya, this is Mouse."

Mouse looked over at her.

And got very, very still.

I got to my feet and turned to face her, standing at Mouse's side. In the light spilling from the open door I could see her looking at the dog, obviously wondering what he was going to decide about her. Like she was facing a judge passing sentence.

In case the subtext hasn't been clear enough, let me say it outright: This was Odd.

Mouse didn't take his time deciding whether he liked folks or not, he didn't have to. I'm not clear on all the powers his supposed ancestor, an Asian Foo dog had but Mouse knew good people, bad people, and not-people on sight. I had never seen him deliberate before.

If he decided he didn't like her, things would get ugly. This dog had taken on ogres, undead, and an assorted palette of vampires, and was still around.

If he decided he didn't like her, I wasn't sure what I was going to do. Not that I didn't trust Mouse, but…

I liked her. I really, really, _really_ did not want her to be evil.

Mouse padded towards her slowly. She just stood inside the door and watched him with calm, waiting eyes. The Ice Queen was back on the throne. He lifted his head and sniffed.

She didn't move a muscle. I think she even stopped breathing.

Stopping right in front of her, he stared up at her with those big, sees-too-much eyes.

Then he flopped down on his back and began twisting back and forth, his paws held up in front of him, tongue hanging out of his mouth, begging for a tummy rub.

"You…you…"

"Dog?" Varya provided lightly, crouching down and obliging him. With both hands. 

He made happy doggy grunting sounds and ignored my sputtering.

"You don't deserve her," I snarled. 

He stared up at me and I swear he winked.

Great, now my _dog_ was giving me sass.

"Ho, ho," I said, leaning my staff against the wall in its usual spot and grabbing his leather lead from the basket near the door. "Very funny. Ha, ha. It is to laugh."

"He's sweet," she said, straightening and dusting her hands together.

"He's something." I held up the lead and he scrambled to his feet and bounded over. "I'll only be a minute. He usually walks himself but it's getting late. I don't want anyone to think he's a coyote with a thyroid problem and calling animal control."

"No trouble at all. Take your time."

"There's Coke and some of Mac's in the fridge if you want any," I called, as Mouse barreled out the open door.

Mouse didn't take long, he never did when he knew I was busy. I felt bad that I hadn't taken him out for his hour long walk that day. I usually tried for at least one. He seemed to understand.

When I went back inside she had gotten a Coke and was staring at the shelves and shelves of books I had lining one wall of the living room. They were choked with books; traditional paperbacks, trade paperbacks, hardbounds of all shapes and sizes. Most shelves were double- or triple-stacked.

I liked to read. Wizard.

After I wrestled the door into submission, I took my duster off and hung it up. My place, I thought, wasn't really all that bad. 

The furniture, a couple of comfy chairs ( _sans_ the Inquisition no one expects) and a couch big enough for me to fall asleep on comfortably. Sure it was all second-hand, and didn't look the greatest, but every one of them was good for relaxing in front of the fire with a bottle of Mac's finest and a book. 

The floor was thickly scattered with rugs. All kinds of rugs. Woven rag rugs, Navajo traditional rugs, Oriental carpet runners, and some I had no idea what they were. They were colorful and felt good against bare feet. My kitchen was small, but more than serviceable, with an icebox that kept the things that were supposed to be cold, cold. 

When I say icebox I don't mean a synonym for refrigerator. I mean an icebox. One from the old days when guys led horse-drawn wagons full of huge blocks of ice so the housewives could recharge their cold storage. It was surprisingly efficient. And no electricity to kablooey.

On the mantle over the fireplace were more candles, my sword-cane, and two swords. One heavy European broadsword with a cruciform hilt, and a Japanese katana in a lacquered sheath. I was kind of watching over them for a bit.

Other features of my hobbit hole were a small bedroom with my single-size bed and a tiny little bathroom with a stand-up shower. As I had no hot water, I hadn't really felt the lack of a bathtub. It wasn't like I'd fit anyway. 

There were windows that started about eight feet off the floor, the rectangular casements that let in just enough light, although the winters could be pretty brutal. Some of them still hadn't been replaced since the zombie thing, and were covered in plywood. It was October. Yeek. I'd need to get on that.

Personally, I thought my apartment had a kind of bohemian, gypsy flair, especially when the candles were all lit. Yeah…bohemian…that's the ticket. Maybe I should buy some patchouli.

"Now that the mutt and the cat are dealt with, give me a few minutes to gather some stuff and I'll take you back to your hotel." I paused. 

Why had she come with me again? She should have stayed at the hotel, brightly lit and full of people. I knew something was targeting her, and I'd kept her with me anyway. It wasn't like I'd needed her to drive or help with my failed attempt to summon Toot. 

I hadn't even thought about it, and from the puzzled expression on her face neither had she. After she'd finished treating my legs, I'd ordered the pizza. We'd gotten dressed while we were waiting for it (in separate rooms, you creeper), and then we'd left. Together.

When we were both so paranoid about dragging other people into our wars, that was one more thing for the weirdness scale.

"Yes, of course," she said, overcompensating for her own hesitation with forced heartiness. "You can keep the rental. If it gets kablooied you can just call for another one. They'll bring it to you. The information is in the center console. Oh, you don't have a cell phone. I suppose you will have to find a pay phone. Oh, you have a phone here. You can call from here…"

She fell silent, realizing that she was babbling.

We stared at each other.

"We do need to talk about the elephant in the room at some point," I said gently.

"No," she said firmly. "We don't. There is no elephant."

"Yes, there is. And it's giving Mouse a run for his money in terms of size and greyness."

"There is no elephant because there can be no elephant."

"There is no spoon?" 

"There is no spoon."

"Then what is this, Varya?" I demanded. "What is this that we're feeling?"

"I'm feeling nothing." She wouldn't look at me when she said it.

I crossed the room in a few strides and took her shoulders. She refused to meet my eyes, gazing uneasily to the side. That was a good thing, but no less frustrating because of it. "I think that's the first outright lie you've told me all day," I said to her. "I _know_ you've been going through the same thing I have; the little thrills, the longing to touch. It feels so natural with you, so _right_ I think I'm going out of my mind."

"Harry, I'm sorry if I led you on. I didn't mean to give you—signals." She had a hand flat against my chest and was trying to twist away from me, but not very hard. The grip I had on her was not tight. She could have slipped away without any kind of struggle.

"Look, I'm as screwed up about this as you are. I know the risks when someone gets involved with me. Stars and stones, they've been demonstrated too many times. They inevitably get caught in the crossfire. But I don't need to explain any of this to you, do I?"

"No…" I didn't know if she was answering my question, or protesting.

I didn’t know and I didn't care. All the desire, for the carnal and the romantic, that had been building up since she'd stepped into my office was released all at once, and all I could use was words until she said otherwise. My head was swimming with that special cocktail that attraction and anger could create, all hormones and pheromones and adrenalin. 

"I've been half-assing all night because of this—whatever you want to call it. I should have been able to handle the fizzles in the park without having to get my gear, but I saw an opportunity to manipulate you into my arms, to pretend, even for a little while…"

"You didn't manipulate me," the _sotto voce_ so low I almost didn't hear it.

"Then why are you resisting this so hard?"

A spasm wracked her face, but she didn't answer.

"Then I'll tell you why. You've lost people, too. And you feel like it's your fault. You feel like it was your responsibility. You should have stopped them from being there. You should have tried harder. You should have saved them. If you'd been faster, smarter, stronger. If you'd figured it out before it was too—"

"Stop it!" she cried, and with a surprising burst of strength, broke free from me and staggered backwards. She hit one of my bookshelves and several volumes tumbled to the floor. 

"Varya, it's okay, I know what it's like, what you're going through," I told her, desperation coloring my voice. I needed her to understand. "We're adults, with our eyes wide open. You hunt an archdemon, I'm a wizard, maybe…maybe this could work out for us." Hope surged in my chest at the words. They had released a raw, shattering need that I'd been suppressing for a long, long time. Since before my relationship with the lady Warden. That had been on a more casual basis than I'd ever had before. We'd been playing, wondering where it could lead but having no expectations, and we'd been right not to have any.

But I _wanted_ that, I wanted to wake up next to the woman I loved, reaching out in the morning light and brushing the hair away from her sleeping face. To have someone to come home to, someone to snuggle with on blustery nights in front of the fire, to argue with about where we would eat. Someone I could live my life shoulder to shoulder with. I wanted to open myself up to another human being, to stop living in this Fortress of Solitude I'd built up around me. I hungered for it.

And with Varya, it really felt like I could have that. There was a soothing steadiness around her, and she was quick-thinking and capable. I wouldn't worry about her being used as a weapon against me as much as I would someone else. I could see her face in the early hours, feel her blonde hair against my fingers as I stroked it away. I could see her waiting with Mouse for me when I came back home. Or her returning to me with a smile and an embrace after she'd dealt with her own business. I could hear her complain about constant Burger King and Pizza Spress.

I'd already had her at my side in battle, and I had trusted her to do what she could to have my back. I had just met her today. That kind of trust did not come easy for me.

"I can't—do this with you!" she cried, denying my epiphany and want and ardor. And her own.

"Do what, Varya? What can't you do?"

"I can't be with you, Harry!" she shouted. The dam had broken. The resulting flood proved that I hadn't been the only one with thoughts of us and what could be between us. The distress on her face, it looked like the words were causing her physical pain. "I can't touch you, or hold you, or comfort you, or protect you, or kiss you! I can't reach up and brush back that one lock of your hair that keeps tumbling over your forehead! I can't smooth away the line from between your brows when I see you remember all the terrible things I want to hear about! I can't wrap my arms around you and tell you it will be all right! I can't try and soothe that pain I see every time I look at your dark eyes! I can't make love to you even though remembering your weight on top of me makes me yearn for you! I can't _do_ any of those things with you! If I did, I would be condemning you to a fate you can't possibly imagine! I've been fighting it all this time because it's _impossible_!"

"No," I told her. "It's not."

Then I yanked her to me and covered her mouth with mine.

If she had offered the tiniest bit of resistance, I would have stopped immediately. I would have dropped my hands and backed off. I joke about James Bond, but I don't forcefully seduce women, double-oh Connery style. It's not my thing. Scenes like that usually made me just feel really uncomfortable.

But as soon as her lips touched mine she melted against me. I gathered her to me, gently, sliding one of my hands down her back. Her lips were so soft, and they parted beneath mine, inviting me into wet depths of such incredible heat I was seared to my core by it. I explored them, oh-so-carefully, and she responded with a shudder, her hands reaching up and twining themselves in my hair.

The kiss went on and on and on, until I was aching, until my skin was crisping, until my heart was pounding so hard my entire body shook from it.

Finally, we parted, and when I reached up to stroke her cheek…

It came away with silver reflecting the firelight.

The passionate, fiery vortex that had been whirling to consume me died instantly, doused by that dampness. 

The newly born hope splintered like ice and melted.

I let go of her arms and spread my hands, taking a step back and she hugged herself, face streaked with tears.

"I am so, so sorry…" I stammered. "I _never_ meant to…"

"It's not your fault, Harry. It's not," she insisted miserably. "You didn't do anything wrong. I…want it. I want it so badly it hurts. I want you."

Those words, spoken by her, with that husky voice, caused another wave of desire to surge through me. But the way the candlelight glistened in her eyes made it disappear like a weak spell at dawn.

"I know you're afraid…" I began. She interrupted with a harsh bark of laughter.

"Afraid? It's so far beyond fear I don’t even know how to describe it to you."

"Why? Dammit, talk to me, Varya. What's got you so spooked?"

"You do. You're too right. You're too good. Too good for me to be with and still be able to leave you behind. And I will leave you. I'll have to."

"Ilyvich," I muttered.

"Not just him. Harry, I've been following him for so long I've lost count of the years. I always get so close, but never close enough. I'm not strong enough. I have to kill him. I have to, to pay a debt, to right a wrong. _My_ wrong. And I cannot be with _anyone_ until it's finished. Because of what it's turned me into. What I turned me into. And what I've done to others I've—I've cared about because of it."

"What has it turned you into, Varya? What have you done? I guarantee you I can match you awful thing for awful thing. What's so terrible that you think I would…do you think I would not want you anymore? That I would despise you? Or is it something else?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Can't, or won't?"

"Does it matter?"

I stared at her for a long moment, and I wanted her to meet my eyes, but she stubbornly kept them turned to the side, biting her lip. My glare felt like a manifestation of my will, trying to draw her eyes to mine.

For the first time in my life, I _wanted_ a soulgaze. I wanted it so badly it was everything I could do not to take her chin in my hand, tilting her face up, forcing her eyes to mine. To hell with all the consequences. To hell with the fact I would be submerging her in the chaos that was Harry Copperfield Blackstone Dresden, even as I fell into Varya Nadeanenko. To hell with the fact that no matter what we saw, no matter how abhorrent, we would never forget it. It would be immune to the benign touch of time softening the memories. It would be in harsh high definition forever.

I wanted to know. I needed to. What was this big dark secret that was keeping her from me?

Hell's bells, I was a fucking _wizard_. And I was pretty good at what I did. I was no bantam weight. Why wouldn’t she let me at least try to fix it? Why wouldn't she—

Let me stumble into the dark labyrinth without a map, without any clear understanding of what I was getting into, blinded by my own needs, my own selfish desires. Arrogantly assuming that I was in control, that I knew what was best. Listening but not hearing, watching but not seeing.

Just like Susan.

Arctic shame flashed through me, killing the heat that coursed through my veins.

"I'll get the things I need," I said shortly.

Then I kicked aside a rug, revealing the trap door beneath it. Pulling it open, I all but jumped down the steep stairs. My frustrated desire, the disturbing comparison, her unwillingness to explain were tumbling together to put me in a very sour mood.

" _Flickum Bicus_ ," I said, this time lighting only a single lamp sitting on a table. I didn't see my lab as I grabbed a few things and swept them into a duffle bag I kept down there.

On a shelf, amidst a bunch of other esoteric bric-a-brac, there was a human skull. The eyes slowly illuminated with orange light.

"Boss?" a sleepy voice asked.

"Go back to sleep, Bob," I snapped.

"I thought I heard a chick. You got a girl up there, boss? She hot?"

"Go to _sleep_ , Bob."

"You got it, boss. But I get to hear if you got lucky later. Bow chicka bow bow. Nighters." The orange lights faded.

I packed two potions in clearly labeled sports drink bottles, a pick-me-up potion and an escape potion. Both had been extremely handy on previous occasions, so I'd added them to my regular repertoire. Besides, they weren't vastly complicated to make, and good for teaching Molly her way around the beakers and Bunsen burners. I also tossed in a set of steel knuckles, decorated with runes and spikes of iron, a handful of iron nails, and one or two other odds and ends. 

Demons and fairies. 

I had picked up and created a lot of anti-fairy devices since my time at Arctis Tor, where I had seen Lloyd Slate. I'd kind of poured Summer Fire into the Wellspring of Winter. It pissed off some Winter fairies.

Okay, it pissed off _all_ the Winter fairies. And most of the wyld ones too.

I'd be ready the next time a Sidhe bastard decided to come and screw with me. This was not the night for it.

I didn't have any little tricks like these against demons, though. No easy to acquire metals that melted them like a snowball in a furnace, no specialized knowledge like I had about the fae. How they loved making deals, how they could never lie but could damn well deceive, and how speaking their true name three times could compel them.

It took a special kind of faith to fight demons. And I was fresh out.

But I knew someone who wasn't.

  


 


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry, mind and heart in turmoil, goes to see Michael to discuss demons.
> 
> And puts two and two together and gets five.

# Chapter Ten

I climbed the stairs back up, which were almost as steep as a ladder. She hadn't moved from in front of the shelves, tumbled books at her feet, but Mouse had come and sat down next to her. Her fingers were lightly lying on top of his head, absently scratching behind his ears. As my head emerged through the hole I saw her fingers slowly still as her thoughts pulled her attention away from the dog. Mouse gave a little whine.

She gave him an ineffably sad smile and started scratching again.

That smile just about broke my heart.

I must have made a noise, because she started and whipped her hand away from Mouse's head as if she'd been caught doing something profane.

He gave me a look of pure reproach.

He didn't need to. I felt lousy enough as it was. My wrecked hope and frustrated desire was making me sullen, and very angry. I tried to beat it down. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn't my fault.

This is just the way it is for people like us.

I closed the trap door behind me, put my duster back on, and grabbed my cane, snuffing candles as I went.

"Let's go," I said curtly.

She nodded.

I drove this time. I liked to drive. But what I really wanted to do was go for a long walk. For some reason walking had always helped me when I got pulled in too many different directions. But that wasn't an option, so I drove.

This time, the silence between us was like a living thing, wrapping around us in a blanket of strained misery. It pulsed in sickening waves. I could feel her in the seat beside me, holding herself still, like a deer that had scented an enemy. 

She'd hurt me, she hadn't wanted to, but she had, and she had no idea what to do to make it better. Or at least not to hurt me more. I didn't know any better than she did. There was no way I could trust myself to speak. My control over my motor-mouth was limited at best, and when I was pissed off or afraid it tended towards the slightly sarcastic.

Okay, the really sarcastic, and I knew if I tried to speak, I would only end up being caustic. 

All of this was new to me. Usually it was me keeping people at arms-length, citing how dangerous it was for them. That was all a cover for the soul-shriveling fear I carried around with me as I wondered, every day I wondered, who out of the people I cared about would be next on the executioner's block. I wasn't sure what would happen when it happened again, and it would. All I could do was try and minimize the damage by keeping that circle of people as small as possible.

And it was making me angry that I had been through everything I had been through, lost everything I had lost, and I was still willing to try. She wasn't. 

Maybe she didn't think I was worth it. Maybe she didn't think I was strong enough. Maybe she thought I was too limited to understand. 

She could very well be right on all counts, but that didn't make it any easier for my self-esteem.

These were the thoughts running around in my head as I made my way through the dark streets. It was a good thing traffic was light, I probably would have plowed into someone. I vaguely recall I blew through two red lights.

I couldn't turn off the vicious cycle. But why wouldn't she try? She was protecting me. But why couldn’t she trust me? You don't know everything, Harry. Hadn't I been where she is, too many times? Then you should understand, you know all about the loss. But why wouldn’t she _try_? 

A carousel of blame and pain.

It was interrupted by the Jeep making a sputtering lurch when we were about a quarter mile away from our destination. 

"Not now, come _on!_ " I slammed the heel of my hand against the steering wheel.

The car completely died. I mean, it just gave out utterly. No lurch, no wheeze, no groan. All the lights turned off and it glided to a stop in the middle of the street.

I could almost hear the GPS lady say, "So there!'

I let loose with a quiet string of some inventive invective. 

The aura of a wizard in turmoil. It's not pretty.

"We're hoofing it. Let's go." I didn't even bother putting it in park. I just got out and started walking.

I didn't open her door for her.

Yeah, it was petty. And juvenile. And misdirected. I knew it was everything bad and nothing good, okay? I couldn’t help it. My insides were roiling with a mix of all the big unpleasant emotions, and I couldn't figure out how to get a handle on it yet. All I could do was focus on the job in front of me, which was finding an archdemon. Maybe after she did whatever hoodoo she needed to do we could figure this thing out.

And I was brusque with her because I didn't want to use her as an outlet for any more of my frustrated longing and confusion and hurt. Was this what it felt like for the women who had shown an interest in me? This ego-shattering pain? It didn't matter that I understood most of her reasoning. It didn't matter that said reasoning was sound. It didn't matter that the logical voice in my head said she was right, pointing to the long list of devastating failures behind me.

She had rejected me. It was unexpectedly agonizing.

Whatever it was going on between us should never have been brought up. I wished I'd never said anything. But if wishes were fishes we would all own a Long John Silver's franchise.

I was already about forty feet away from the Jeep when she caught up to me. I heard the jingle of keys as she put them in her coat pocket.

The silence stretched on, only the tap of our feet on the sidewalk, the sound of the last remaining crickets in the night. The huge harvest moon had vanished behind the Chicago horizon, leaving us with the orange street lights of the residential area we were moving through. 

It would have been either a really good time or a really bad time for something to mess with me. It's all about perspective.

Soon enough the house I was aiming for hove into view, and I felt my pace quicken in response. Catching myself, I started to slow down, but I'd forgotten she'd easily be able to keep up with me. I grunted, remembering I was no longer Gulliver in Lilliput, and resumed my speed.

The house was a misfit among the aggressively more modern homes. It was a magnificent colonial, with manicured lawn, neatly trimmed hedges, and even a white picket fence. A warm, golden light streamed out from one downstairs window. Even with every other light off in the house, it was inviting, it was comforting.

It was a _home_. When I pictured the Last Homely House in my head, I didn't picture vaulting elven halls and exquisite carvings, ephemeral trees and trickling crystalline waterfalls.

I pictured the Carpenter house.

We walked up to the gate and she stopped dead in her tracks, staring up at the house. I turned to admonish her and caught sight of her face as she gazed up, eyes darting between the roof gables. It was a helpless fear, and longing, and despair that I saw there. So strong she shook with it.

"I can't go in there," she said, turning and almost sprinting away.

I had a dazzling moment of clarity, a myriad of little things fell together, and something snapped inside me.

I reached out and snatched her arm mid-flight.

"What is wrong with you?" I demanded. "These are my friends. They're going to help us kick that archdemon's ass."

"You don’t understand—"

Sticking my staff under my arm, I reached over and opened the gate, then hauled her through it with me.

"See? You didn't burst into flame, you didn't get smited. What is going on? What do you see, Varya?"

"Nothing," she said, hanging her head. "Nothing that concerns you."

I already knew what she saw, so I didn't press her on the prevarication.

I stomped up to the front door and knocked. Lightly. Very lightly. Even with the pretty decent head of steam I'd built up I was lucid enough not to want to wake up, i.e. piss off, Charity Carpenter.

Another light went on in another room, I knew it was the living room next to the entryway, and soon the door opened. 

"Harry," the man said, his face creasing in a welcoming smile, even though it had to be after midnight. This family was a real early to bed and early to rise type. He should have been asleep hours ago but…

I didn't think he'd slept. Or if he had it wasn't a restful sleep.

"Michael," I replied. Varya stirred in discomfort. Molly's dad could have that effect on people.

"And who is—your friend?" he asked. The verbal stumble was so quick I almost missed it.

Almost.

"This is Varya Nadeanenko. She said she's hunting an archdemon, and I need your help."

"An arch—you had better—"

"I know my way around, Michael," I said breezily, then, using my hold on her arm, I crowded Michael back until I had dragged her across the threshold with me.

"Just…if you would please, keep it down. I don't want to wake Charity."

And he moved his wheelchair, giving Varya and I space to enter his living room.

"This is Michael Carpenter," I told her brightly. "Knight of the Cross."

"Former Knight," he murmured. There was no sadness or regret in his voice as he said it. It was a service record he was proud of, and although he had been forced out with a medical discharge, he wasn't bitter about it.

I'd nearly shut out the world when my _hand_ got burned to a crisp. Something like that? Nearly paralyzed from the waist down? I didn't know how he could cope with it so well. God only knows what I would do if I was faced with that situation. Particularly as it would have to happen at the absolute worst time possible, endangering lives because I couldn't react.

I'd lose my mind.

But Michael wasn't me. He was the man of faith who always caught me between cynicism and bewilderment. He always had good advice for me, whether I wanted to hear it or not, and he had never, ever turned me away when I needed help.

Not even now, when I was the reason he was in that chair.

"May I use your powder room?" Varya asked suddenly.

"Of course," Michael said, and gestured down the short hallway that led to the back of the house and the kitchen. "First door on the left."

"Thank you." She hurried off.

The smile faded from his face before she even got out of sight.

"What's going on, Harry? I have never seen you be so rude to a woman before."

"I—"

"And you manhandled her through my door. That is not something I condone, but I particularly don't condone it in my house."

"That was to—"

"Harry."

I stopped trying to sputter excuses and slumped a little. The epiphany I'd had earlier seemed kind of silly, like I was trying to justify how furious I was.

"Yeah, I know what you're going to say."

"Really? Then what am I going to say?"

"That there's no reason for me to behave towards anyone like I just did towards her." I sank down into the well-used floral couch. "She's twisting me up. I don't know which way I'm going to jump next."

"Isn't that how you usually operate?"

"Not in this department."

"Oh…Oh!"

"Don’t get any bright ideas. It's just…a confused mess at this point, nothing more."

"But it wouldn't be so confused if there wasn't something there. I know you, Harry. You don't do these things casually. If you didn't care about her, you wouldn’t be angry."

"Ah, that's the golden ticket though, isn't it, Charlie?"

"What is?"

"It doesn't matter if I care about her. It can never happen."

"Come on, Harry, you are a good man. Bad things have happened to you—"

"Bad things have happened because of me," I interrupted.

"Bad things have happened _to_ you as well. I know. I was there for a lot of them."

"True, that."

"You need to stop taking the weight of the world on your shoulders. You have enough legitimate things in your life to deal with without having to manufacture more."

"Is this where the 'let go and let God' speech starts?" I asked with a smile, no malice in my words.

"He never gives us more than we can stand," Michael said. "It just so happens that He thinks you can stand a lot. You haven't broken yet. Have you ever thought that maybe He's right?"

"Come on, you know it's never been about that."

"I know, it's because you don’t necessarily agree with how He does business, but you don't have to. All you have to do is be you. When you get in over your head you turn to your friends for help. You just need to start believing that He is one of those friends."

"Don’t hold your breath."

"I won't," he said. His honest face, topped by neatly trimmed brown hair, crinkled into another smile. "So. A demon you said?"

"Yeah. Czernobog. Know anything about him?"

"Not much. He wasn't active in my circles when I was still a Knight."

"I know you know all about fighting Fallen, can you help a brother out?"

He looked troubled. "He's a demon, not a Fallen, different rules. My job was to try and save the souls the Fallen had tricked, not banish them like you do with demons. Besides which…" He sighed. "I'm sorry, Harry, but without _Amoracchius_ I'm afraid I don't think I can be much help."

_Amoracchius_ , the Sword of Love, was one of the swords on the mantle of my fireplace. It was a sword with one of the three nails of the Crucifixion in its hilt. Three nails, three Swords, three Knights.

And I'd been present both times, when two of the three had been taken out of action.

"Knowledge is power, Michael. What can you tell me?"

"Czernobog has been dabbling in mortal affairs, in a mortal host for a very long time, I think. I don’t believe there's anything on record as to anyone ever having done a successful exorcism, banishing ritual, or slaying of the host body to return him to Hell."

"Is that pretty much all the options when fighting a demon?"

"Well, obviously you would know more about the arcane than I would, but for me, yes. My first priority would be to pull the demon out of his mortal host, save them. If I couldn't…"

"Slay the host."

"I know that within the _Opus Dei_ it is their last resort, but necessary. The flesh is not more important than the spirit. If we must sacrifice the flesh to save the soul from corruption…" He shrugged. "It is so much more terrible than what the Fallen do. I do not envy those with the blessing to quell demons. At least the Fallen hosts are willing. Lied to, but willing. The possessed don't get any choice, not even the illusion of choice."

"The circumvention of free will."

"It is the most precious gift we have received," he said. "And the most taken for granted."

"Can we get back to demon killing?" If we kept down that road, my bitterness would spill out in how I thought Michael's boss handled free will, and a lot of other things, too. It wasn't the time.

"You can't kill a demon, Harry, you know that. Not on the firmament, anyway. You can only take away their physical host, or banish them if they have manifested. Only the most powerful demons can manifest without a host for any length of time, so it takes a powerful priest or practitioner to perform the ritual."

"I know some banishment rituals," I mused. "For lesser demons, spirits, fairies, that kind of thing. Would they work on Czernobog? I think the Litany of Saints isn't going to do me much good." The Litany was what the church used most commonly for exorcisms. 

"They should. You would just have to put enough of your power and your faith into it."

"Will my faith work against this guy? He's pretty Orthodox from what I understand."

"Faith is faith, Harry," he said simply. "I've seen yours work miracles, even if it isn't the same as mine."

"So, banishment ritual. All I have to do is trap him in a circle. Should be a snap. Of course, the snap will probably be my legs."

"I wish I could go with you."

"How are you doing?" I asked abruptly.

"Better. I start with the cane next week. I'm really looking forward to it. Once I'm up and about I'll be able to start on the extension for the house."

Michael Carpenter was actually a carpenter. Of course he was. It was a theme with his boss.

"Aren't you…angry?"

He didn't get offended. "I was. It was a trial, a trial I needed a lot of help with. And I still struggle with self-pity and frustration. But then I think about what I've gained. Time with my family. My wife, my children. Not leaving them to go haring off, none of us knowing if I'd be coming back or not. Missing birthdays and school plays and field trips. So I'm a little inconvenienced for a while," he bounced his palm on the arm of the chair. "I went from serenity in doing His work to serenity in the family He blessed me with. I am content."

"And that's why you're still up at midnight. It's way past your bedtime, dude."

"I was reading." He nodded to a side table. On it was a lamp and a well-used, enormous family Bible. "For some reason I felt the need to steel myself. I wasn't surprised when you showed up on my doorstep."

Not a bit of inner tumult showed in him.

Once again I felt that little ball of envy, bewilderment, and derision. It wasn't nice. But I did covet, I was confused by, and I did scorn his faith. All the time. And what he had.

And didn't begrudge him a single bit of it. He was a good man, and deserved and earned every good thing he got.

"So explain to me what your behavior was when you came in," he said, and that calming, reassuring voice had gotten very quiet.

"Tell me what you saw in her when I came in," I countered.

He shook his head. "I don't think that's for me to say."

And that was that. No amount of wheedling, cajoling, or threatening would get him to spill it. I snarled internally, started wrecking my mental house. Then I put my big boy pants on and decided to put my cards on the table.

"Look, she's not being straight with me. I don't know what in the hell is going on. I have this archdemon she hired me to find. She paid me way too much to do it. No sign of a demon. No word of a demon. I mean, come on, this is _my_ town. Stars and stones, don't you think something would have tipped me off about a freaking archdemon? Then we get attacked with the lamest assassination attempts ever. Toot-toot doesn't answer when I call him. And then when I tried to get closer to her she—" 

I clacked my teeth shut, realizing nearly too late how wildly inappropriate, rude, crass, piggish, and just plain stupid the next words were. Boiled down? They would have been along the lines of "she refused have sex with me and won't tell me why".

"She spurned you," Michael said. I glanced at him, expecting amusement, but his eyes were serious, and sympathetic. "You opened yourself up to her and she denied you."

"It's more and less complicated than that…"

"That's why you practically dragged her in by her hair."

"It wasn't by her hair, and maybe I could have handled it better, but, I wanted her across the threshold without an invitation."

Thresholds were powerful, powerful things. A home, a real home like the ones the Carpenters had, with a house packed to the rafters with years and years of _life_ could generate a threshold that nearly no Sidhe, no matter how strong, could cross with evil intent. No spirit could enter. And for people with bodies of flesh who happened to have powers, like wizards, when they crossed over they left those powers behind.

You had to be invited in. Thresholds, not just for vampires.

I'd pulled her in before Michael could invite her. If she had any powers, she couldn't use them.

"But why are you so upset? Has she threatened you?" At that question his face grew stern. Medical discharge or not, former Knight or not, sword or no sword, Michael was still a force to be reckoned with just by virtue of his faith. If I said yes, Varya was going to encounter unpleasantness from this man.

Starting with a stern talking to. Then he would try to save her. It was what they did. They didn't do the hacking and hewing unless it was absolutely necessary.

"No," I said, remembering in the park against the fizzles, the dumpster in the alley. She hadn't been clinging to me in fear. She had been protecting me. "The reverse, I think."

"Then?"

"It's complicated," I repeated again. It sounded pathetic even to my ears.

"Then come back at a reasonable hour to explain it, Mr. Dresden."

A tall woman in a bathrobe was standing in the foyer archway to the living room, knotting the sash. The air around her practically crackled.

Wow. She was mad. She hadn't called me Mr. Dresden in years.

"Hi, Charity," I said weakly.

"Why are you here, Mr. Dresden?" she asked pointedly.

Charity Carpenter, Michael's wife, blacksmith, and sparring partner. She didn't like me, but she had started to accept me after I'd risked my neck saving Molly from some phobophages she had accidentally summoned, rescuing her from Arctis Tor, and then again from the White Council.

Apparently showing up after midnight made a lot of that goodwill fly out the window. Of course, it wasn't like she didn't have reason. Usually I was the harbinger of some pretty heavy hitters of evil that I needed Michael's smiting skillset to defeat. Stormcrow Dresden, that was me.

And she knew very well how he had ended up in that chair.

"Harry is consulting, that's all," Michael said.

"Consulting?" The tone of her voice clearly indicated she thought I didn’t even know what consulting _meant._

"Yeah. Demon in town. I was asking Michael if he had any ideas."

Her blue eyes narrowed beneath messy blond bangs, mussed from sleep. 

"Demon?"

"Archdemon, actually."

She turned her suspicious gaze from me to her husband.

"It's true," he said.

The wariness drained out of her.

"I'm sorry, Harry. It's not that you're not welcome here…I'll make coffee."

She had just started to turn when Varya emerged from the bathroom.

"You brought your 'client' with y—" She trailed off once she got a good look at my 'client'.

"Michael, I need your help in the kitchen. Now."

He gave me a sidelong glance, then wheeled down the hall behind Charity.

Charity carefully avoided getting too close to Varya when she passed.

"Have a seat," I told her, pointing at the other end of the sofa. She sank onto it, looking a little helpless.

"I'm sorry you are so angry."

"I'll get over it."

"I will leave, and find someone else to help me. Please keep the retainer." She moved as if to rise again.

"Sit. Down."

She fell silent and lowered herself once more, tense and on guard.

And then, because I just couldn't help myself, I focused and extended my concentration out, and Listened.

Listening isn't really a magical thing. It's just highly developed discipline. Anyone could do it, really.

And I didn’t realize how screwed up my state really was. I was eavesdropping on _Michael_.

"…can't stay here."

"She's Harry's guest," Michael was saying soothingly. "Harry wouldn’t bring evil into this house."

"Not knowingly," Charity snapped. "And you _let it in here._ He's been deceived before. And deceived us as well."

"That was different."

"Was it? Was it really? He hid that he had the shadow of a _Fallen_ in his head, Michael. He took a Denarius."

"To save our child from picking it up."

"And then he kept it. For years."

"He gave it to me in the end."

"He had the shadow of a fallen angel living inside his head."

"Which he defeated."

"No one defeats a shadow like that."

"Harry did." The softness was gone, replaced by a hint of steel. 

I heard Charity sigh. "Whether he did or not, it doesn't matter. It goes. Now. He can stay. He probably should if he's been exposed again. But I want it out of my house."

"She's Harry's guest," Michael repeated with that same quiet strength.

"Michael, you are the head of this family, and I have always supported you. Through—through everything. I am telling you now, get that creature out of my home."

"Charity, do you really mistrust Harry and his judgment that much?"

"If he's with that thing, why don't you mistrust them more?"

I had heard enough. And now I felt guilty about bringing Varya here. I'd taken advantage.

"Get up," I told Varya. She rose like a ghost. I called out, "Michael, sorry I can't stay for coffee. We're heading out now." 

"No, Harry, you don't have to—"

But it was only Michael's voice. Charity was silent.

I jerked my head at the door and we moved to it, through it, and out into the street.

"Where are we going?" she asked timidly.

"Just start walking."

We got about a block away before I shook my shield bracelet out and filled it with my power. Then I planted my feet, and pointed my staff at her. The runes inscribed in the wood were glowing.

"Now. You are going to tell me everything. You are going to tell me where Toot-toot is. You are going to tell me how you managed to escape my senses. But first, you are going to tell me which one you are, Denarian. Which coin do you possess? What is your name?"

  


 


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another confrontation with Varya, and it's even more unpleasant than the first one.

# Chapter Eleven

She stared at me under those orange streetlamps. Her expression was that heartbreaking forlorn one again, but I wasn't buying it. Not anymore.

" _What is your name?"_

She jumped as I roared. 

"I have no other name than Varya."

"Bullshit. Angels all have 'el' on the ends of their name. I've read the Apocrypha, and I've met more of your kind than anyone ever should."

Her shaking hands spread out in front of her. "It is the only name I have. The only one I have ever had."

I was shaking too, but not from fear. 

"Where is Toot?"

"I do not know. I had nothing to do with his disappearance."

"Where is Toot?"

"I swear to you, I do not know!"

"So help me, if I find out you did have something to do with his binding, if you've hurt him…"

"I have lied to you exactly once, and you caught me in it immediately," she said, her face anguished.

"You used me. You used me and I don't even know why. I can't _believe_ I fell for your act. Perfect height, perfect eyes, perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect woman. So sympathetic to the tragic wizard hero. Florence Nightingale with a great rack and a tight ass. With a sad little story about her father throwing her out. That was a good one. Topped off with some make believe archdemon."

"Ilyvich is—"

" _Shut up!_ "

Her eyes squeezed shut for a long moment. When she opened them again, I saw the icy gale within them. The shutters had slammed shut. Her hands stopped shaking.

"But I figured it out," I went on. "You see, that's what I do; figure things out. That story about your father, how Mouse reacted to you, when you saw the Swords, little things. They added up. You probably would have been able to keep stringing me along if I hadn't taken you to the one house in Chicago that has its own angelic special forces detail. That was what you saw, why you didn't want to go in. You saw the angels that protect the Carpenters. It's part of his retirement package. And my friends saw you for what you are."

She just…looked at me.

"Who's calling the shots? Nicodemus? Is Lasciel free again? This kind of game seems like it would suit either of them."

No answer, just the tundra gaze.

"You aren't even going to bother with denials? Try to win me back? Get close to me again?"

"What would be the purpose? Your mind and heart are set against me."

"Hm. That didn't stop Skankiel from repeat attempts. She was persistent."

"Before, in your apartment, you asked me 'what is so awful?' It has been answered."

"You. Don't. Get. To. Talk. About. That," I snarled. The glyphs on my staff grew brighter, now limned with a silvery white light. "Ever."

"No need to destroy your soul over this," she said dryly, eyes flicking towards the staff. 

The white light was soulfire. A little gift from the archangel who liked me. It was the stuff of creation, and enhanced my magic exponentially. It just so happened to use my soul as fuel. Not something I wanted to use casually, as you may well imagine.

"I would rather have it consumed by divine power it than have it fall into your hands," I said, but I eased back. The edging dissipated. I would need that later if she dropped the sweet thang act and attacked me. 

I wanted her to, needed her to. Until I saw her in her other form, I wouldn't be able to go all out. Not until I didn't see her wearing the skin suit that looked like the woman I'd held hands with in the park, tended my wounds, covered my ears with gentle hands. 

Denarians were all limited shapeshifters. They could take the form of their host and switch to the twisted form of the Fallen that resided inside them. The uber-Fallen could use both at the same time.

Once I saw it, all bets were off. Magic was tied to emotions, and I had a lot going on in that department. I would have to take care not to level the entire street.

"Well, you're not a raving lunatic so I'm guessing you're one of the strong ones, like Nicodemus and Deirdre, able to mostly control the demented angel in side you. So what do you want? Why are you in Chicago? Why the con?"

"You refuse to believe me."

"Then try the truth."

She shrugged. "Is this where you threaten to destroy me, wizard?"

"Yes, but not now. I don’t know your tricks yet. You would rip me apart."

"Most likely."

"But I'll learn," I growled. "I'll learn. And then I'll find you."

She nodded. "I believe you."

"Just know this. You hurt anyone, and I mean anyone in this town, I will come for you. I may not be ready to take you on yet but I am pretty sure I could layeth some smack down on your candy ass. I may not be able to kill you, but you'd get to deal with a wizard's death curse for all eternity."

"The only one I'm after is Dmitri."

"Shut up about the goddamn nonexistent demon already, and get out of my town."

"Once my business is concluded, I will leave."

"Like I said. You hurt someone, I will find you. Once I know I can take you, I will find you."

"No," she said. "No. You won't. Goodbye Harry Dresden, wizard."

"Goodbye, Varyiel, lying slut."

That got me a cold, cold smile. "You got the last part correct, at any rate."

"Get out of here."

" _Nekhay miy batʹko blaoslovyt vas i trymaty vas,_ Harry Dresden. _"_

"Yeah, well fuck you too."

Turning, she walked off down the prosaic residential street and vanished into the night. 

  


 


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmering with righteous anger, Harry returns home to consult with Bob.
> 
> Where he learns that maybe he isn't so righteous after all. Or even right.

# Chapter Twelve

I burned.

I burned and I could feel every vein and artery pulsing inside me, every hair on the surface of my skin. The slightly chill night breeze was harsh and stinging, the cricket chirps were thunder in my ears.

What had she wanted from me?

I remember walking. It not doing any good. Nothing was settling, nothing was getting sorted.

Why had Mouse liked her?

I remember getting to a pay phone and calling a cab.

Why hadn't Michael told me what she was?

I remember going to my office, and then home.

Why had I been such a damn idiot to believe something so good could happen to me?

Straight to my lab.

Shucking off my coat, and setting aside my staff, I moved towards the big table.

My lab was the definition of organized clutter.

Those cheap white wire shelves lined the walls, and they were stuffed with bins, boxes, and Ziploc bags. I had smaller tables running on either side of me as I walked in, ending in the big one I was zeroed in on. In one corner, I had made room for a small desk, and it had colorful notebooks stacked on it. Molly's study area.

On the other side of the big table was a metal ring set into the floor, about three feet across, made of three different metals braided together. Handy for home protection and summoning those who weren't as cheerful as Toot-toot.

I glared at it. Not so long ago, beneath that circle, beneath the cement and the concrete, I had buried a Denarius. A piece of silver. One of thirty. Yeah, those thirty pieces of silver. After their infamous and nefarious use in paying off a traitor, they'd been used to house thirty fallen angels. The Fallen who had refused to bend knee to Lucifer. After the shadow in my head had died, I dug it up and gave it to Michael.

More than once I had encountered Denarians. A lot of them. It was one of them that had perforated Michael.

And I had met a new one today. An early birthday present. But there were irregularities. A lot of them. I had to figure this out, or it could get me killed.

"Bob."

The eyes on the skull glowed to life again.

"You done already, boss? I guess it's been a while, so you don't have much staying power yet. Don't worry! You'll get your stamina going!"

"I want to know about Fallen, Bob."

"Why? Talking about your hot and heavy night is way more interesting."

Bob was a spirit of intellect. He had served a variety of masters, accumulating a vast and immeasurable amount of magical data along the way. Who needed the Library of Congress at your virtual fingertips? I had Bob. And he never lagged, pinged out, or had latency issues.

He was also obsessed with anything and everything sexual. I paid him in trashy romance novels.

I said he was a spirit of intellect, not class.

"Fallen, Bob."

"Okay, okay." The eye-lights dimmed in disappointment, then brightened. "Talk about you getting some after?"

I eyed a claw hammer I had laying on one of the smaller tables.

"Oh, I get it. You didn't get any. You probably did that whole tragic hero thing and blew the deal."

Reaching a hand towards the hammer, I hefted it.

"No wonder you're so cranky. Hell's bells, Harry. You need to get _laid_. And every time you get into a position to tap it you get all 'ooooh noooo I respeeeect you tooo much, it's toooo dangerouuuus, I have to suffer alone, in the dark, in the rain, like a frustrated Hemingwaaaaay'."

I slammed the hammer down on the table right in front of Bob's shelf. It left a largish dent in the steel surface.

"Right. Fallen. I can tell you anything and everything you need to know about Fallen. How can I help you today?"

Nodding to myself, I pulled out the little brown wool packet I'd retrieved from my office. I had no idea who or what the hair belonged to, but she had given it to me for some reason. At the very least I could find the poor slob on the other end of it and warn him about what was coming for him.

"Whatcha' got there, boss?"

"A lie."

"Really? It looks like a pious encasement to me."

"A what?"

"A pious encasement," He repeated it slowly and clearly. "I swear you are the most ignorant—"

"Bob. You know what time it is?"

"Um…two in the morning?" he asked innocently.

"I'll give you a hint. You can't touch this."

"A pious encasement is an object designed to seal, muffle, or otherwise keep an infernal item hidden, or to keep a holy one preserved and or protected," he rattled off in a most dutiful manner. "It's crafted with the vestments of a person with strong faith who has been touched by the divine."

"Touched by the divine. Like an angel."

"Wow, that was almost like intelligence! I'm so proud!" The skull sniffled a bit, which was impressive, since he didn't have a nose. "Little Harry is growing up so fast!"

"I've been around the world, from London to the Bay, Bob."

"Pious encasements are often used to help with the body parts of saints, delicate religious texts, and in containing the Denarius coins."

"Good job they do there," I grumbled. "The damn things see more circulation than a water park." 

Okay…I was betting the hair wasn't from a saint, as none had been canonized for a while. That left the other alternative. So maybe she hadn't been lying about a demon. Still didn't mean I wasn't being played for a sap in some sort of infernal Wrestlemania.

"You get that from Michael?"

"No. A Fallen. I want to know about Varyiel."

"Varyiel?" The eye-lights flickered on and off rapidly, his equivalent to blinking. "There isn't a Fallen named Varyiel."

"Yes. There is."

"No, boss. There isn't. Look, the Denarians have been well documented. Yeah, Nicodemus goes around trashing their collected lore every century or so, but there's still several complete lists of the names and aspects of the Denarians. They've been around too long for that kind of basic knowledge not to be all over the place. Even I know it, and none of my masters have ever been particularly interested in the whole War of the Falling, or the Revolution of Heaven, depending on your perspective. There is no Fallen named Varyiel."

"Extrapolate then, what would a Fallen with the name of Varya's true name be?"

"Well…Varyiel. But if you met someone named—wait, did you say Varya?"

"Yes." I unwrapped the bundle and finished walking to the big table. Most of it was covered with a foot tall model of Chicago. It had taken me six months of nonstop work and a baker's buttload of will to finish, not to mention the time to gather a chip of cement, a crumb of brick, a sliver of bark from every real-time original represented on the map. 

Everything was made of pewter, fused with the items I had so painstakingly gathered. It wasn't the entire city, that was just too big, but it was a perfect scale model of Burnham Harbor and everything around it to about two miles. Every street, every tree, fire hydrant, mailbox, and sculpture. 

It saved me a lot of time when I was looking for something. Or someone. Or wanted to distract twelve foot tall goat-like Summer Fae who wanted to tap-dance on my head.

"You met the Derelict? Was she the one who was up there earlier tonight? Oh, damn, boss. You missed out on the greatest booty call _ever_. That chicky-boo's got _experience_. Like, a thousand years plus experience!"

"The Derelict?"

"You know what derelict means, riiiiight?"

"Yeah, something that's been abandoned, or the action of abandoning something. Smartass."

"I don't have an ass, so that just makes me smart. Which we already knew. Yeah, Varya Nadeanenko. The Derelict."

I set the hair down in the middle of Michigan Avenue and turned around to him. I couldn't attempt the spell until I finished the conversation. Using Little Chicago took a lot of concentration. And with the amount of power the thing contained, it could get really exciting really fast if something went wrong.

Like the time I had used it to shadow someone and they had sensed me. Being the bad guy, they'd gone after me with vicious and overwhelming power. I had survived, barely. Little Chicago had short circuited and nearly melted my brains. 

The overload and the attack combined should have killed me. The glitch in model could have blown up the entire house. The shadow I'd had prancing around in my head had saved my life, in order to save her own. The end result had been a foot-wide hole melted through the enchantment and a headache that had lasted for days.

I'd fixed the issues since then. No more short circuits, and it should technically divert any energy sent at me over the entire, real city, diffusing it out so much it wouldn't hurt anyone.

Technically.

"So tell me about the Derelict. She's a Fallen, right?"

"Strictly speaking, I suppose so, but she didn't become one when all the other ones did. That big to-do in heaven where the angel with huge daddy issues took on God? Yeah, that's where all the other Fallen originate. Not her. The Fallen won't even associate with her. They consider her beneath them. A dog. A stray dog."

"What's her story?"

"I want four new books, at least two best-sellers, and one Harlequin graphic novel. And I want to go to the drive-in to see something racy."

" _Nine and a Half Weeks_ is playing in Joliet."

"And the books?"

"I'll pick them up as soon as I can." 

"Deal! Okay. In order to learn this story," his voice got all mystical and grandiloquent. "We have to go to back. Come with me, Harry, come back in time to days of old."

"Stars and stones, Bob. Get going or I swear I'm going to ventilate your skull."

I could have just ordered him to talk. He was bound to obey my commands. I only did it in extreme situations, though. I knew myself well enough that I could probably get used to snapping out orders disconcertingly fast. So I bargained, postured, and cajoled, and we both got something out of it.

"Fine, fine. Rechka, a little village outside Kiev, Ukraine, Nine-ninety-three A.D. There was an Orthodox priest who lived there, a father Ilya Gavril. The good guys, that would be God and his team, and the bad guys, that would be Lucifer and his pals, figured out he would be the source of a great good or a great evil upon the world. So they sent agents."

"But their agents can't directly interfere."

"Define 'directly'."

"They can't get into someone's thoughts, they can't kill, they can't do a lot of things."

"And that leaves a lot of grey area. They can influence. They can watch. They can guide. The bad guys can wait for the right moment and strike."

"The right moment."

"An unrepented sin. That's how people get possessed. When they have an unrepented sin, it cracks the door open enough to let a demon wiggle through. They're sneaky like that. Most people, whether they're of the faith or not, feel bad when they do something they know they're not supposed to, even if it's just a little twinge they ignore. That's enough to stop the invasion of the body snatchers."

"Explains why there's not more possessions."

"Yup. Angels and their Boss have to wait to be invited. And even then they don't go in and take over, they make a partnership kind of thing, usually only on the spiritual level. The difference between respecting free will and taking advantage of it."

"So what you're saying is an unrepented sin wrecks the soul's threshold."

"Bingo! So the demon went to tempt, and the angel went to protect."

"Who was the demon?"

"A big gun named Czernobog. The _Night on Bald Mountain_ guy."

I grunted, crossing my arms and leaning back against the table that held Little Chicago.

"Czernobog stayed in his form, which limited his interaction but gave him a lot more power in the right circumstances. He fought using nature, calling up minions, basically laying siege to the little church the priest lived in every night. The angel, though, was a lot more direct. She was granted human form, and sent to live with him as his assistant. She fought them off at night, and worked with him during the day."

"She was granted a beautiful, female human form, right?"

"Oh yeah. _Hot_. I've seen the icons."

"But a priest and an unmarried woman?"

"It wasn't all that unusual for the time and the place. The Orthodox priests can't do their services alone. They need someone to do the Hours with them, help with feasts, things like that. And because the church was new to help spread the Word to the unwashed heathens of the area, they took what they could get."

"I think I can see where this is going."

"Yeah, it is pretty stereotypical."

"You said they figured out this priest was the source of something? What was it?"

"Not something, somewho. You may have heard of him. Big time black magic wizard named Rasputin. You know, managed to manipulate the Russian Czars into turning their backs on the people so the poor slobs rebelled and set in place an atheist regime that lasted for decades, instilling the fear of faith over most of the continent of Asia and Eastern Europe, with several attempts at the genocide of Jews and Romany to boot. Gavril was the pivotal ancestor. If he'd stayed faithful to God, Rasputin could have advised the Czars into being one of the most benevolent governments the planet had ever seen."

That was an ugly chill. Rasputin was a legendary bad guy. One of the monsters in the closet. One of the guys the Senior Council used to scare the other Council members. 

"So she fell in love with the priest, he died because of it, she was cast out and ordered to find and kill Czernobog," I said, trying to get back on track. This was not what I had been expecting. At all.

"Oh no. Nothing nearly that simple." His eye-lights wavered in salacious amusement. "Czernobog is there messing with her head, right? I mean, she wasn't even like an _angel_ angel before she was given mortal form. She was just one of the Host."

"The Host? The Heavenly Host? I thought that was just another term for the angelic armies."

"Nope, entirely different enchilada. The Host are infinite. You can't start giving infinite bodies out, it just isn't practical when they'd just be sitting around most of the time. After the Jews stopped with the big military actions, they weren't really called into play anymore. Most of the time they're just hagioplasm."

"Whatioplasm?"

He sighed, and the skull gave a little rattle, like he was shaking his head. "Harry, sometimes I _despair_ of you. _Hagioplasm_ is the divine version of ectoplasm. Holy goo. And that's the form the Host are in most of the time. Until one of them got plucked out, made into a hottie tamale, and was sent forth to protect good and banish evil."

"She'd never been in mortal form before?"

"Nope! Never even interacted with humanity like the named guys. She probably had just been given one of those glow-in-the-dark androgynous models, with all the faces and wings, and sent out to lay waste to the enemies of the Lord."

"That's—"

"A ripe clueless young virgin just waiting for the right hombre to pop that cherry! And that's not even the best part!"

The burn in my blood had died away during his lurid retelling. Something that felt suspiciously like guilt started sniffing around.

"And the best part is?"

"She had to be given free will! In order to take initiative and deal with mortals, she had to be able to make independent decisions! They slapped Mortality for Dummies into her noggin and sent her on her way! To the noble, tall, handsome priest all alone in his chapel. Can you just imagine? You have this direct creation of God, with no knowledge of emotions, or morality, or bodily functions. Then you plunk her down in a _female_ form with this studly paragon of virtue. She must not have known if she was coming or going! Well…going, anyway."

"They consummated it."

"Czernobog pulled a fast one. Let them think they'd defeated him, and melted away with a mighty roar and a lot of fire and brimstone. They were so, so relieved after the battle, clinging to each other, clothes all torn up, her breast heaving in the night…"

"Focus, Bob. They had sex, they weren't married, he broke his vows."

"And they didn't repent! They weren't sorry at all! Isn't that awesome? Lust for the win!"

"What happened," I asked darkly.

"Czernobog went into Gavril like a shot. Once the priest had fallen the chapel couldn't protect him anymore, the building and grounds weren't old enough to have their own sustained sacrament. Only the Derelict didn't know that right away. By the time she figured it out, she was in his clutches. The things he did to her—"

"Stop," I said, sickened. A demon snatching the mortal form of someone a naïve angel loved, and using that form against her. My imagination recoiled at even touching it. "Don't go there. Gavril got possessed. What happened to—to the Derelict?"

"Needless to say, the Powers That Be were none too pleased with their slutty little angel. Not only had she failed in her mission, but she had failed in a spectacularly sinful way. They cast her out, cursed her until she could kill Gavril's body, freeing the priest. She splicks him, she goes home."

"Cursed?"

"With a mortal form, half her powers, and all the human desires of the flesh. Plus limited immortality. She can be injured, that's the limited part. Under a very specific set of circumstances. When she is, the only way to heal herself is with human man's seed. If she gets hurt, her body will shut down for a little while. When she wakes up, she _looks_ perfectly fine, and goes on the hunt. First guy she sees, wham bam thank you ma'am."

"Like a White Vampire? She takes life energy from the guy? Kills him?" Why did that come out sounding hopeful?

"Oh, no. Nothing like that. He gets the night of his life and Dear Penthouse fodder. She gets healed. That's it. She only takes what he would be giving anyway."

"Czernobog got the same deal."

"Kind of. Unlike her, he can be wrecked by anyone with the stones do to it, but she's the only one that can deal him a mortal blow. Sort of a you made the mess you clean it up deal. The demon's body can be hurt by others, but not killed."

My stomach was in knots. This was…monstrous. 

And so was I.

"You said she could be injured only in a very specific set of circumstances."

"Yup. That's the kicker. The poetic irony of the divine punishment. The only thing that can injure her is someone she loves, and loves her in return."

  


 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry comes to realize just how vast his mistake was with Varya, and makes plans to try and make it right.
> 
> He has to find her, first.

# Chapter Thirteen

One of my headaches rose up like a tsunami and came crashing down between my ears. With a sharp exclamation I began massaging my temples.

"Isn't that just _sick?"_ Bob was all but slobbering. "Since she loved the priest, he can kill her and she can kill him even though Czernobog is in the driver's seat. How freaking miserable must that be? I mean, she can't even commit suicide! She probably hates herself and what she's done to her beloved priest so much she must positively reek of self-loathing and bad self-esteem. Dr. Phil would have a _ball_." 

"Bob…"

He rattled on, ignoring my somewhat nauseous interjection. 

"And she's been chasing down CzernoGav for over a millennium. Not to mention the fact that any guy she falls in love with can be possessed and turned against her. Such a juicy tragic heroine."

"You're telling me Czernobog is still inside that priest? Ilya Gavril?"

"Oh yeah. Posilutely. Sometime in the early twelfth century what was left of the priest's soul managed to bind the demon to the body. And since the only one that can kill the body is the Derelict and she hasn't done that yet, Czernobog's stuck. He can check out any time he likes, but he can never leave."

"What…what is the body's name now?"

"Um…something else Russian sounding. Something Ilyvich."

"Dmitri?"

"Yeah! That's it! Dmitri!"

I shoved that aside. "The Derelict. She was cast out. That means she's evil, right? Like the rest of the Fallen."

No, that didn't come out lame and desperate at all. I needed her to be evil, it was the only way to salvage any of the remaining shreds of my self-respect.

"I don't think so, judging by what I know of your definition of evil. You know it's hard for me to keep those kinds of nebulous ideas straight. It's okay to kill this guy but not that guy, believe that lie but not this one. Hell's bells, God and all them are supposed to be the good guys, and look what they did to the Derelict."

"Bob…" It was a bit strangled sounding. 

"All I know is she's never been involved in any evil big time action, and there's evidence of her trying to help people. I can't find any recorded mention of her matching their style. I mean, the last known sighting of her was in New York."

"What does New York have to do with her being good or evil?"

"There are authenticated pictures of her pulling people out of the rubble back when all those buildings fell down. She just kept going in and bringing them out. Even after they told her to stop, it was too dangerous. Got buried when the sub-basements collapsed in the tower she was in. Man, that must have sucked. Stuck under hundreds of tons of debris, no way to free yourself, nowhere to go, alone, in the dark, for weeks, or months…So, when do I get to see Kim Basinger and Mickey Rourke getting it on with the horny buffet?"

"Isn't there a group or something she belongs to? What about the rest of the Fallen?"

"The Brotherhood of Evil Ex-Angels? Or do you mean Angels Anonymous? 'Hi, my name is Varya, I betrayed God by screwing the priest I was supposed to keep from sin'? No such thing. The Denarians don't want anything to do with her because she refuses to turn her back on God. Despite her big old sin, she still loves her Dad. The angels don't want anything to do with her because she's unclean."

"So she's all alone."

"Yeah, she's got nada. And she forsook her post and betrayed her charge because of lust and pride. She abandoned and was abandoned. That's why she's called the Derelict. But, evil like the Fallen? There's no evidence to support it and all kinds to refute it."

"Bob, what does this mean?" I repeated to the best of my abilities what she had said to me before walking away earlier that night.

"'May my Father bless you and keep you.' Book of Numbers, chapter six, verse twenty-four. Only it uses 'my Father' instead of 'God'. It's Ukrainian. Dialect's a little archaic, though. Your accent is _terrible._ Why? Boss? Where are you going? You okay? Harry?"

I lurched upstairs and to the bathroom, stripping off my clothes as I went. 

I felt dirty. I needed a shower.

The cold water blasted over me and I shivered beneath it. 

I'd done some pretty low things in my life. A lot of stuff I'm not proud of. But when I remembered what I said to her, the names I threw at her, how I threatened her…I just wanted to crawl into a hole and wait for the world to go away.

She'd hurt me, so I'd lashed out. If I'd been in my right mind, I would have taken into account all of the facts, not just the ones that pointed me in the direction to legitimately unleash my rage. 

Michael would never, ever let me hang out with a Denarian on chummy terms, much less let one into his _house_. The angel protection detail would certainly not have let her step foot onto the property.

Mouse would have leaped on her instantly, trying to buy me time to escape. Instead he had felt so threatened he begged for tummy rubs. Somehow I didn't think he'd ask evil for tummy rubs.

The old man in the park. He had tried to—do things, and she had still saved him. And while she may not have taken any physical damage, she was still slowed just like I had been. Magic still affected her, and with the chaos of the fizzles, anything could have happened.

And except for denying what she felt for me, she had never outright lied to me. Not once. Somehow, I knew that.

I stayed in the shower until I shuddered spasmodically from the cold, excoriating myself. Self-flagellation. I wallowed in it.

The click, the kindred soul thing I'd felt in my office, came unbidden to my memory. Yeah. I would have remembered that, too. Her face in the hotel room after I'd woken up. The obvious struggle when we were talking about what was between us. The Fallen were good actors. Not that good. And no Fallen could manufacture the connection I had felt with her.

The connection I had brutally cut. With a rusty chainsaw.

I'd told myself I was a wizard like ten times that day. I had senses regular type folks didn't. For something as powerful as a Fallen to pull that kind of whammy on me for that long was extremely unlikely. 

But she had rejected me, and I hadn't wanted to see the logic.

Now she was alone in Chicago, without friends, without anyone to turn to, hunting an archdemon who could kill her. Like she always was. The one ally she thought she'd found had turned on her like a rabid animal. Angst, arrogance, and self-pity had made me hurl hateful words at her, waiting for her to attack me so I could have a more satisfactory outlet.

After I had said those things to her, betrayed her, she still cautioned me against using soulfire, knowing what it cost. She'd even couched it in cold sarcasm, knowing that if she had shown any concern it would have set me off even more.

My fingertips were turning blue when I stepped out of the shower, shaking so hard I staggered against the sink reaching for my towel. 

I had to make this right. The very thought of seeing her again sent fear and shame shrieking through my veins. But I still had to go. I had to find her.

I owed her that much.

Drying off, I got into my own clothes, a pair of blue jeans and an Aerosmith t-shirt. I put the steel-toed work boots back on, though. 

Sitting down on my couch I pulled over my old rotary style phone. I still remembered the number to the Sax Hotel from the previous encounter (vampiress and summoner) and was able to dial from memory.

"Hotel Chicago, how can I help you?"

"Can you connect me to Varya Nadeanenko's room?" An assurance and a moment of quiet, I could hear keys clicking in the background.

"I'm sorry, that suite is vacant."

I winced. "Since when?"

"The previous occupant checked out earlier this morning, sir. Is there another room I can connect you with?"

"What time did she check out?"

"Around three in the morning."

There was a shrill squeal of static on the line, and I had to jerk it away from my ear.

"Did she leave a forwarding address?"

"No, sir."

"Did she say where she was going?"

"No, sir."

"Dammit," I whispered. 

"Sir?"

"Sorry. Thanks."

"Of course, sir. Enjoy your day."

I hung up the phone and stared bleakly around my apartment. She must have checked out as soon as she'd gotten back to the hotel, after I had driven her away. Mouse put his head in my lap, looking up at me with big brown puppy dog eyes.

"Yeah, I think I screwed this one up pretty bad."

Once again, her face swam into my mind's eye as I'd stood there screaming at her in the middle of the street.

After it all, she'd still blessed me, and I spat high school obscenity at her in return.

Drowning in a swamp of self-pity and recrimination wasn't going to get me any closer to finding her. If I couldn't find her, I would have to find her target. She wouldn't be too far behind. There I could help her, even though she technically wasn't my client anymore, and probably didn't want to see my face. The reason she'd hired me in the first place was because she had run out of leads and didn't know the city. All she needed to find him was for something to break.

And I was really good at breaking things.

"Hell's bells," I muttered wearily. I'd left my bag with the anti-fairy arsenal and the potions in the Jeep. I was sure she would have cleaned out the Jeep before leaving it. Just had to hope she wouldn't get too curious about some of the contents.

What was I thinking? She was invulnerable, right?

Hell's bells…

Hauling myself to my feet, I put together another, less complete kit, this time including my .44 automag revolver in my duster pocket. I tried not to carry it around because I didn't have a license for it, but I had a magical doodad shortfall to make up for. What? A wizard with a gun? 

I'm a wizard, not a moron.

I went back downstairs. 

"Hey, Boss, can I come out and take a look at whatever you left on the map? It smells weird."

"Weird?"

"Kinda like sulphur. And vodka."

"Vodka doesn't have a smell."

"Says you."

"For the purposes of assisting me with using the hair in a tracking spell I give you leave to come out. You must return once I deem the tracking spell is concluded."

"Wahoo!'

A nebulous streak of orange light shot out of the skull and zipped around the lab a few laps. 

"Focus, Bob. I need this quick."

"Fine, fine. I'll keep watch and let you know if anything gets hinky."

Reaching out, I picked up the hair again and breathed some of my will into it. It absorbed it readily. 

"Huh," Bob said. "It's almost a year old, too. Shouldn't still be viable. Must be because of its original owner being all Wolverine in the regen department."

Closing my eyes, I formed the structure of the spell in my head, infusing Little Chicago with my intent. Then I reached down and put the hair back down on Michigan Street. Tracking spells were pretty simple thaumaturgy, and Little Chicago had made them even more so. 

Thaumaturgy, for such an impressive word, was actually a simple concept. You get something that was an inherent part of something else, use your will to forge a link between them. Then you have a direct line to the original. Voodoo dolls fell under that category, too.

Now instead of running all over the city, I could find pretty much anyone by using the model I'd so painstakingly created. The cost to create Little Chicago, in time, energy, and materials in its construction, had been more than repaid in its convenience and practicality.

Then I willed myself _into_ the city.

I found myself standing on Michigan, the buildings, street, and trees not pewter, but looking as they looked in real life. Out to about twenty feet or so, things began looking misty, but up close they were as sharp and clear as if I were standing in the real location. Looking up and over my shoulder I saw my body, leaning over the table, eyes unfocused, one hand extended. Bob hovered over me like a day-glo cumulus cloud.

I was humungous.

" _Segui votro testatum_ ," I whispered, waiting for the tug.

No tug.

I repeated the incantation, adding an impatient little "Go."

I had done a good job on the trees. They looked awesome.

"Bob?"

"Yeah, it's working. Everything firing on all arcane cylinders. It can't find its source."

"Dammit, I was afraid of that."

Tracking spells were easy to use, and easy to defend against.

"He probably kind of felt it when the hair was ripped out."

"And now I'm back to square one." I released my will and found myself staring over Little Chicago again. It always took me a moment to reorient myself and work the little bit of stiffness out of my limbs when I went back to the flesh.

Upstairs, my door screeched in pain as someone forced it open, then closed. Familiar treads made their way over my head.

"Mork, is that you?" I called up through the trap door.

"Exedor, is that you?" a man's voice responded.

"I'll be up in a minute."

"Take your time. As long as you have some Mac's in your icebox."

"Always."

"See, and people say my little brother is a heartless philistine."

Grinning, I said, "I have determined the summoning spell to be concluded."

"That was soooo anticlimactic," Bob complained, but he zoomed back into the skull.

  


 


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets a tuxedo. And fills Thomas in on what's been going on.
> 
> Not that they'll talk about what's really important, or anything.

# Chapter Fourteen

"For once your timing is good," I said to him as I emerged from the lab.

He gave me an unreadable glance from where he'd settled on the couch, set down his beer, and made for the door.

"Too late now!" I gave a grade-A deranged wizard cackle. 

With a deep, heaving sigh, he morosely moped his way back and flopped down on the couch. Mouse put his head on the couch next to him and gave him sympathetic eyes.

This was my brother, Thomas Raith. Half-brother, technically. You could see the resemblance in the slope of the jaw and around the eyes, but that was about it. Six-feet tall or so, his hair was blacker than the Abyss and _always_ looked good. His face and body would have made Michelangelo throw down his chisel in disgust proclaiming how done he was. He was a few years older than I was, but it didn't look like that any longer.

Wizards live longer than mortals, by a couple hundred years barring the accidental or violent death. But we still aged. I didn't like that part. Aging sucked.

He just sat there on my second-hand couch drinking my beer wearing a pair of black leather pants and a white billowy shirt and was still the cover of one of those trashy romance novels I gave to Bob. To add insult to injury, he was muscular in a way that left his abs looking like a row of speedbumps and he never had to work out or watch what he ate.

Okay, the eating thing was not entirely true. He was a vampire.

Vampires come in three flavors: Black, Red, and White. Black Court vampires were the walking corpse, garlic, article of faith type of vampire. They were the most dangerous and thankfully very rare, mostly having been wiped out thanks to a tell-all book the White Council urged an Irish writer to publish in 1897. A pitchfork may not be much of a weapon by itself, but you get thousands of them together and you have a real game changer. 

It had been a radical move on the part of the Council. Massing humanity against the supernatural was the thermonuclear option. And it could result in mutually assured destruction. That's how bad Black Court had been. Hell, I'd run into _one_ and she nearly stripped my gears. She did manage to fry my hand.

Red Court vampires had a human guise they wore over their revolting bat-like true form, and that guise was always beautiful. Reds were bloodsuckers. Red Court was what Susan had been gotten by. I had kind of started the war between them and the White Council over it.

White Court vampires, what my brother was, were beautiful all the time. They had no other forms. Their demon manifested in pallid skin and their eyes going pure white when the hunger was upon them. Depending on the breed, they sucked out life force through an emotional straw; fear, lust, or despair. Thomas was a lust kind of guy. With a conscience. Or at least, he'd had one.

And he was in love. Love was to White Court vampires what crosses and holy water were to Reds and Blacks. He was madly, achingly in love with a woman, and he literally could not touch her.

His life kind of sucked. Must be genetic.

Which was why we were going to be very careful around each other. The naagloshii (insert moment of twisting, horrific terror) had done some…unspeakable things to Thomas. And it had taken us a long time to get back to where we could talk again. I didn't know what was going on with him, and he was not going to share any time soon.

He was glaring at me over the beer bottle as he took a swig.

"Bitch," he said.

"Jerk." 

He sighed and set the beer back down. We liked being brothers, having never had any. I was an orphan, his dad had tried to kill him on multiple occasions. As a result we had our sibling play. We both needed it. For him, now more than ever. I knew he was feeding again regularly after several years of trying different methods to only take light surface enjoyment from a series of women. Thanks to the naagloshii.

When a White well and truly fed, the victim even lost the will to resist. They didn't want to resist. They became addicts. And if the vamp in question was hungry enough, they would willingly die for them.

I was willing to overlook it for the time being. He was family, and I knew he wouldn't kill in his hunger. But it was still a big blow in the trust department. It hurt. It hurt more that I couldn't help him.

"So what is it this time that the big bad wizard needs his smarter and infinitely better looking big brother to bail him out? Again."

"I'm going to see Marcone. Could use another set of eyes."

"You have them. What's up?"

"I'm not sure. That's the problem. Word is there's an archdemon in town."

"An archdemon?" His brow wrinkled. "Lara never said anything."

Lara was his sister, and the one effectively ruling the White Court, using her sex-slave daddy doll as a puppet.

Ew.

"That's part of it. The Paranet is quiet, Michael hasn't heard anything, and Murphy hasn't come stomping on my turf looking for help with anything weird."

"You'd think with an archdemon in town, someone would have noticed."

"My thinking exactly."

"Do you trust the source of this information?"

He caught my hesitation before replying, but didn't comment on it. "Yes."

"Then why Marcone?"

"Last known associate. He was at this big gala Johnny threw two weeks ago."

"Lara went to that," Thomas said. "It was for an exhibit in the Chicago Arts District. Some new amazing abstract artist who works in the medium of precious metals. A lot of people went. Why do you think Marcone would know him?"

"An archdemon comes on to his turf, he's going to know. He has Valkyries on payroll."

"I guess you're right. So, what, you want to go now? At four in the morning?"

Of course I wanted to leap up and go right out, but saw the logic. Marcone was vanilla but he'd hired people who weren't. I wouldn't be storming that castle out of impatience and expect to keep my head attached. But stars and stones, this was the only lead I had to find Varya again.

"No, I guess not," I said, getting a beer of my own and sitting across from him.

"Let me make a couple of phone calls."

"Have at," I waved my hand. He pulled out a cell phone and disappeared into my bedroom.

With nowhere to go and nothing immediate to do, I kind of deflated where I sat. My brain started up the Merry-Go-Round of Suck again, going over and over the events of the night in dazzling hi def. 

Fortunately I didn't have long to stew. Thomas emerged after a few minutes.

"Aren't you in luck?" he asked.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Why?"

"Do you have a tux?"

"In all the years you've known me, what makes you think I would own a tuxedo?"

"You have a temple dog, the Queen of Winter demanding favors, and a snazzy grey cloak of the Wardens. I don't see how a tuxedo is so outside the realm of possibility."

"No," I grumbled. "I don't have a tuxedo."

"Then we'll get you one. I know people."

"Now?"

"No time like the present."

"It's four in the morning."

"Harry, hello, vampire."

"You're not that kind of vampire."

"There's nocturnal and then living the night life. Besides, you were ready to go beat down Marcone's door but you can't go shopping for a tux? Stop being a little girl. Let's go."

Hoisting myself up I shrugged into my duster, picking up my staff and bag as I went. Thomas eyed it all with obvious misgiving.

"What's with the arsenal?"

"Killer psychedelic piñatas and a hunting party of rabid moths."

I filled him in on the highlights of the evening while we went out to his car. Make that battleship. It was a huge Hummer. I told him he was compensating for something. He told me it was for his loser of a brother.

It took him a bit to get over the name "fizzlekerblam". But he didn't have to laugh hysterically while he did it. I have never claimed to be Shakespeare. 

"Even for you, Harry, that's some high quality weirdness," he finally said, wiping his eyes.

"Tell me about it."

"Okay, now, I just got my baby out of the shop. Don't touch anything. Don't even _look_ at anything."

"I'll be a good little wizard, I promise."

He grunted and we free climbed our way into the vehicle. 

"So what aren't you telling me?" he asked as we pulled onto the street.

"A lot of stuff."

"You said you had your client with you most of the time. I'm assuming it's a woman. How does that work out?"

"Well, you see, when a mommy and daddy love each other very much—"

"You do know I'm stronger than you, right? That I can boot your ass out of this car and you wouldn't know it until you were rolling down the pavement? I wouldn't even have to slow down."

"Look," I sighed, rubbing my forehead. "It's—"

"You say 'complicated' and I'm feeding you some asphalt."

"I like her," I admitted. 

"And? That's a good thing. We've been worried about you."

"We?"

"I. I've been worried about you," he amended.

"Is this where we finally talk?"

"About what?" he said, but he became very focused on the road, chin growing stubborn.

"I guess not."

Stony silence fell. Apparently orneriness was also family trait.

Eventually we pulled up outside a high end store in the Gold Coast. I was surprised to see movement inside. 

"Come on," Thomas said, parking and getting out.

"Uh…"

"I'm buying. You don't have a hope in hell of even affording the buttons."

"In that case, I'm right behind you."

We went inside and Thomas was greeted like royalty. The store was probably owned by his family. The Raiths had been steadily expanding their economic powerbase in Chicago since their major competition, the Red Court, had been driven out by yours truly.

I could go into great detail about the very smart black suited androgynous employees, or the aggressively fashionable sharp white décor, or the slight discomfort of standing in my boxers, arms spread, with people running measuring tapes all over my body. All the while Thomas making recommendations, sometimes in what sounded like Italian.

But I think you get the idea.

I uncharacteristically kept my mouth shut. To be honest, I was afraid to move. This was the kind of store that didn't have suits on the rack or price tags. If you needed to know the price, you couldn't afford it. One wrong move and I'd have to start selling organs to pay off the debt. Worse, it would be snark fodder for Thomas to use against me for years to come.

Finally they finished with their poking and prodding, their hemming and hawing, and I was able to get dressed and get out of there. They promised the suit would be ready by midday. It was all out of my comfort zone, but I had to admit it was nice to have people jump when you said frog.

"See, that wasn't so bad, you big baby," Thomas said. "Although you didn't have to glower at my people like that."

"I was not glowering. I was being pleasant but quiet."

"You scared them half to death."

"Could have fooled me. And that one person got a little too happy happy measuring my inseam, if you ask me."

"I didn't."

I yawned as we did the hike back into the Hummer. 

"I'll take you back to your place. You should get some sleep."

"You still haven't told me what all this was about."

"Oh, I didn't? There's a fete tonight, at the Driehaus Museum, hosted by your favorite goodfella and mine. I sweet talked Lara into giving me her invitations. Black tie, so you needed a tux."

My head swam for a moment, overcome by exhaustion and gratitude for my brother. Despite everything that was going on, especially between us, he still went the extra mile. He didn't even think about it, he just did it.

All I could do was hold up a fist. He glanced at me, then turned his eyes to the road before raising his own fist and rapping his knuckles against mine. 

  


 


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The perpetrator behind all the strange attacks that have been plaguing him all night finally comes into the open.
> 
> Harry can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing, especially after he meets said perpetrator.

# Chapter Fifteen

I must have been more tired than I'd thought, because the next thing I knew, Thomas was shaking my shoulder.

"Harry, I think you're up at bat."

Opening my eyes I blinked out the windshield.

Then I blinked some more.

"Thomas, why did you drive to Ireland?" I asked stupidly.

In front of us were sheep. Lots and lots of sheep. Bleating and milling around on the road. The sky was highlighting the east, and they stretched down the boulevard as far as I could see.

"This is really going to screw up morning rush hour," I said.

"Make them go away," Thomas told me.

"Naw," I said, with a stretch and a yawn.

"What? Why?"

"They're not real. They'll vanish in about fifteen minutes."

"More Sidhe magic?"

"Yup. So it is the recommendation of the mighty wizard that we hide in the big steel box until they go away."

He rolled his eyes at me, but put the hummer in park and switched off the engine.

The sheep were sheep. They ambled towards us and around us. I could hear them bumping the sides of the Hummer. So far the biggest threat they posed was scuffing Thomas' wax job.

"This is probably some sort of ploy to get me out of the car," I said. 

"Shame it's not going to work," Thomas said, crossing his arms on the steering wheel and leaning forward, watching the pavement pasture.

"Yeah. Hate to disappoint the guy…I mean…that's a lot of sheep."

"There were a lot of moths, too."

"True. I just cannot figure out an angle on this."

"Talk to me."

Thomas was offering to be my sounding board. I took him up on it. We had some time to kill.

"Okay, two different attacks. Both on me and my client." I still wouldn't say her name, or even use a pronoun if I had to. He didn't ask further. If he wasn't willing to talk about his made-for-TV Lifetime movie, then neither was I. "Now this, when I'm alone."

"What else did they have in common?"

I thought about it for a moment. 

"They all happened at night, and right after I'd left somewhere. The first was after Mac's. The second was after the hotel. Now the tux store. Not while I was walking Mouse, for example. They were all initiated during or after a ride in a car. And they were all pretty tame compared to what usually gets thrown at me by the Nevernever. Nothing outright deadly. Plenty of weird, but light on the fatality thing."

"So maybe all this," he nodded at the sheep, "isn't about killing you."

"What else could it be?"

"Capture?"

"Not with fizzlekerblams."

He snorted. "Then what?"

My brain churned through the information. The fizzles, and what usually happened with them in my previous encounters with them. Moths. Lots and lots of moths.

"Clothes!" I snapped my fingers in a eureka moment.

"It wanted your clothes?"

"No, it wanted us out of our clothes."

"So…you're being stalked by a pervy fae."

"No. Well, it could be but I don't think that's its motivation. It wanted something we might be carrying in our clothes, or wanted to destroy it. The hair. Ilyvich's hair. The attacks took place after dark. After we didn't have it on us when we left my office, it waited until we left the hotel, seeing if we'd retrieved it."

"But you said it was no good."

"For a tracking spell. It's a hair sample from a one-of-a-kind demon. Who knows what else it could be used for? High rituals are all about unique and rare materials. A scale from Jörmungandr, a leaf from the Celestial Tree, that sort of thing ."

"And the shepherd act?" He waggled his fingers at the dirty white sea of wool surrounding us.

"No idea."

The sheep bumped against the Hummer again, and the sound made me nervous. But there weren't any red eyes or black horns or fangs I could see, just ruminants ruminating. 

The sun broke over the horizon, I felt it even though I couldn't see it. I understood the reason for my nerves.

"These sheep aren't going to disappear."

"They're not?"

"They're real."

"But you said—"

"I know what I said. Thomas, they're brushing up against your car."

"So?"

"Your steel car."

"Oh. Yeah. That should make them melt, shouldn't it?"

"Yeah."

With a little more trepidation, we looked around us. The sheep had hemmed us in on both sides, sprawling out in every direction. I don't think I could have opened my door if I'd wanted to. There were a lot of really, really pissed of ranchers out there somewhere.

Thomas started the engine, I held my breath. It smoothly turned over and he put it into drive, then tried to edge forward. It made the sheep stir, but they didn't have anywhere to go to get out of the way. 

"This is a Hummer," he said quietly. "I could just…" He planed his hand forward.

"No. Let's not precipitate the Great Sheep Massacre of Chicago just yet." I rolled down my window, gagged a bit at the smell, and shouted, "I know what you want! And you can have it, but I don't have it on me! You'll have to let us out so I can go back to my apartment to get it!"

"You're telling him where it is?"

"If he can get in and get it without getting fifteen kinds of hurt laid on him, he can have at," I told Thomas, then turned my attention back out the window. "Besides, think of all the issues you're going to have with municipal animal control! Those guys are way tougher than you think they are!"

A few minutes stretched by, then as one the sheep wheeled around and began trotting down the street.

Freaky.

"I guess he believed you."

"I guess so. That's a nice change. Now I just have to figure out how to nail him to the wall."

"Didn't you say you were going to give him the hair?"

"I didn't say anything about taking it back again, or stomping him with my spiffy new steel-toed boots until he tells me what he did with Toot-toot."

He eyed me. "You've been hanging out with fairies too long."

"Present company excluded, of course," I added. He groaned.

It only took about ten minutes, and then there was not a woolly tuckus to be seen.

There was, however, plenty of evidence left behind to prove they'd been there. The Sanitation Department was going to have collective apoplexy.

Carefully Thomas drove through the land mines and we went back to my apartment.

"Still, I'm kind of disappointed," he said on the drive.

"In what?"

"I kind of wanted to know what the sheep were for."

We made it back without any further incident and went inside. Before exiting the Hummer, however, Thomas reached into the seat behind him and pulled out a cavalry sabre and a double-barreled shotgun, the barrels too short for it to be legal.

"What?" he said at my look. "Always be prepared. I'm a Boy Scout."

"Uh-huh."

"Look, not all of us can rely on a pretty-pretty Hobby Lobby bracelet and a big shiny stick. Some of us have to use real weapons. Extremely efficiently. With deadly precision."

"Jealous much?"

"Of _what_?"

We kept it up as we went to my door and forced it open. Mister streaked by me inside as soon as it was open. The pretense of nonchalance was just that, a pretense. I could feel the eyes watching me. They didn't feel particularly menacing, but they were still there.

I kipped down to the lab and retrieved the hair, wrapping it back up in the scrap of cloth and twine. Moving back upstairs, I put the pious encasement into a plastic baggie. 

"Gimme a shell."

That earned me the hairy eyeball, but Thomas reached into a pants pocket and tossed me a red cased, brass ended shotgun shell. 

I stared at him for a minute.

"What?" he demanded.

"Just wondering how you manage to get anything into the pockets of those attention whore leather pants."

"They're not that bad."

"I can tell what religion you are, dude."

"Now who's jealous?"

Grunting, I took a razor knife out of a drawer in the kitchen and carefully cut around the shell, taking off the brass cap. Then I dumped the contents inside the baggie with the encasement.

"Insurance?" Thomas asked.

"Insurance. One tiny little spell is all it will take to make it all go poof. Mouse."

The big dog looked up from where he'd been laying on the floor in front of the fireplace. He had sensed something was up and hadn't greeted me at the door.

"You up for some guard duty?"

He gave me his doggie grin and got to his feet.

"See?" I asked Thomas. "You see how he does that? He just gets up and does it. No back talk. No lip."

"He's a dog, Harry. He can't speak."

"Even if he could, he wouldn't."

"Sorry, Harry, I won't play stud to your bitch."

I couldn’t come up with a snappy answer to that so I just made a big show of settling my duster and checking my bracelet. You know, big-time wizard prep.

Thomas wasn't fooled. Neither was Mouse.

"I don't think I'll have time to get a circle up, so if it gets hairy you just start ripping apart anything that seems menacing."

"Gotta love your intricate tactics, Sun Tzu."

"I have no idea what I'm dealing with here. With the Nevernever, blast first ask later is a sound policy."

"I can't argue with that."

Taking a deep breath, I trooped outside, Thomas and Mouse flanking me to either side once we got up the stairs. I hit the street and walked a little further, to a convenient alley. If there were going to be fireworks, I'd rather they not be in Mrs. Spunkelcrief's yard. She had enough problems from me. The rent increase I'd gotten after the zombie invasion hadn't been nearly as bad as I'd thought it would be. I had convinced her it was soccer hooligans.

Crouching, I pulled a piece of chalk out of my pocket and began drawing a circle.

"None of that, laddy," a voice with a distinct brogue came out of the darkness. It was a warm, amused voice. A light male tenor, and seemed used to laughing and seeing the humor in all things. "And why don't ye be standing to that full and fearsome length of yours and let me see what ye got now?"

"Come out, come out wherever you are," I called. "Olly olly oxen free. I see you or no deal."

"On yer word that the pretty one and the great yon beastie will do me no harm so long an I do ye none."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Thomas look at Mouse.

"The pretty one is _me_ ," he whispered.

The great yon beastie in question was still on alert, but it was a general feeling. The voice had not set him off. I took that as a very good sign.

"So long as you do not initiate hostilities during the hand-off, I will not."

"And after."

"No deal."

"An why not? I have done ye no lasting harm."

"You took my friend. I want him back."

"Yer friend?"

"Toot-toot."

A chuckle echoed around us, bouncing off the brick walls to either side. "Ye call him yer friend, do ye, Harry Blackstone Dresden?"

That caused an ugly chill. He had three of my four names. All four, with the correct intonation would be my true name, and anyone could be controlled by someone with their true name. Anyone. And he'd said it close enough to perfect it made my skin want to crawl off me and hide in a hole somewhere.

But I didn't let any of that show. Or at least I tried not to. 

"I do," I replied. 

"An this is why ye feel the need to compel him, forcing him to do yer bidding?"

"I don't force him to do anything," I retorted. "Not anymore. I give him pizza. He reciprocates."

"Ye enslave him through his weakness, wizard. It is always the way with mortals."

"And the fae, too, o paragon of all that is right and good."

"Do ye deny ye treat him in such a manner?"

"He's pissed off he couldn't come save me, isn't he."

There was a moment of silence, then another laugh. "An sure enough he is, Harry Blackstone Dresden! Threatened all manner of unpleasantness to my person if I did harm to ye."

"Just call me Harry," I said. I don't think it sounded like a plea.

"Harry, then."

"And what do I call you?"

"You may be calling me Robin."

Gulp. "Robin?"

"Aye."

"As in…Robin Goodfellow?"

"Aye."

Oh.

Uh.

_Oh._

Shit.

Thomas, who had read his Shakespeare, glanced at me. I gave an imperceptible nod.

"Ah, I see the dawn rising in yer eyes, laddy. Had a bit of a realization, have we?"

"Yeah. I promise to offer no harm to you for the duration of this conversation, provided you do the same for me. The end of this conversation will be mutually decided."

It was the only sane thing to do. This was Puck, the infamous, notorious fae who tricked _fairy queens_ on a regular basis. That's like tricking a hurricane into thinking it’s a spring breeze and acting accordingly. 

A wyld fae, he didn't work for one side or the other, but was always the first one called when reinforcements were needed. He joined as the whim suited him. If he felt like joining at all. Technically he served, but was in actuality beholden to no one.

He was old, even by Sidhe standards, and that meant powerful. But more, he was smart and unpredictable. Most chess masters thought many moves ahead, planning, taking into account piece movements and all their possible permutations.

Puck had already finished every possible variation of that game, and the one after that. And completed the New York Times crossword puzzle, figured out the Theory of Everything, and how to program a VCR while he did it.

So I offered the Old World hospitality. For some reason, be it vampire or fairy, the rules of hospitality were held sacred. They would work around them, manipulate events so they were not at fault, but they would never violate them. He seemed to accept that this was my city, and now, he was my guest. While I extended him that hospitality, he would not seek to harm me, and I wouldn't seek to harm him.

Like I could. Necromancers, werewolves, gloomy island intelligences, I could at least hold my own against them for a while. Eventually I could usually figure out what they wanted and why, and use that knowledge like a club. It wasn't power that leveled the playing field for me, it was intelligence (no jokes, please).

That slender advantage was very, very not an option against Robin Goodfellow.

Out of the shadows at the end of the alley walked an old man, short, grey, grizzled…and familiar.

"You were the one in the park! The one who got caught by the fizzlekerblams."

"Aye, 'twas me. And let me congratulate you on the name; fizzlekerblam. So much better than iontas. Wish I'd thought of it, laddy. Well done!"

"Iontas?"

"Means 'surprise', don't ye know. I never thought my little party favors would cause so much havoc for mortals."

"Party favors? The fizzlekerblams are Sidhe _party favors_?"

"Sure enough. They were in high fashion at all the Court to-dos a few centuries ago."

"Yeah, they're friggin' awesome. Imminent destruction or useless crap. Woohoo."

"The fae can be a jaded lot," Robin said, hitching himself up onto a dumpster (this one made of industrial carbon fiber) and sitting, his short legs swinging. "It takes something like pure chaos and imminent destruction to entertain them."

I thought about what I knew of Sidhe amusements and could not disagree.

"I do feel I need to apologize to ye, though, lad."

"About what? Trying to kill me and my client? Binding my friend? Coating Chicago in sheep feces?"

"I was never trying to kill ye or yer lass," he said with some surprise. "Ye being a great mortal wizard and all, I figured what I used would be an inconvenience, but never put ye in real danger. And even the little fairy who is so devoted to his Za Lord is unharmed and enjoying his time with milk, honey, and bread. Although he claims 'tis but a poor substitute for pizza."

I believed him. I myself had commented on the non-lethal nature of the attacks. To top it off, fae could not lie. He had not meant to put me in fatal danger. And while the words didn't say anything about what Toot-toot had gone through, right then, at that moment, he was fine. A pressure I didn't know I'd felt suddenly released.

"You were after this," I said, bouncing the baggie in my palm.

"Indeed I was. And still am."

"Why?"

He tapped the side of his nose and winked. "If I asked ye for all the secrets of yer client, there'd be refusal on yer lips. And rightfully so."

"You're working for someone who wants it."

"I am indeed."

"And you can't tell me who."

"Course not."

"You're a _mercenary?_ "

"I rather fancy myself a finder of lost things, retriever of mislaid people, and undoer of the noxious trick or two. Much like yourself, Harry."

Stars and stones. Puck was a P.I. 

"The apology then?"

"While ye were fighting the iontas, or fizzlekerblams, ye misunderstood my searching yer lass for the package. I never had any intent beyond retrieving the parcel."

I thought back to it, and again as to how fae couldn’t lie. It also brought to mind after I'd cushioned him from the tree, how tangled up we'd gotten. He'd probably been rummaging in my pockets during the fracas.

"She's not my lass."

"These old eyes have seen enough to know that you are hers and she is yours," he said, flapping a hand at me. "Don't try to trick a trickster."

I had no idea how to feel about that.

"This apology is important?"

He nodded solemnly. "Very. To me. I'd not have that kind of impression of me. I'm not a satyr."

"Okay, Puck," I said. "Let's deal."

He wasn't fazed by my name change. 

"I want the package, ye want yer friend. I must admit surprise at yer insistence at retrieving him, an ye counting him friend. But I'll use it all the same. Seems pretty straightforward to me," he said.

"Fae deals are never straightforward," I said. "Especially with the guy who put a love spell on friggin' _Titania._ "

"'Twas a bit more complicated than that," he said modestly. "The Bard was not known for his attention to detail, alas. Part of me wishes I'd never told him the tale."

Figures.

"I like ye, laddy," he said suddenly. "Ye remind me of me. Ye keep the Nevernever on its toes and right enough it needs to be. That nasty business with the Summer Lady, and yer godmother, ye handled them both well I thought."

Puck thought I reminded him of _him_? Hell's bells.

"And as such I'm dealing with ye in good faith. All I want is the parcel, all ye want is yer friend. We do the do, and then done we be. I dinna know how I can make the deal any sweeter than that."

My mind worked furiously, trying to find the loophole, the wiggle room. I couldn't find anything.

"Thomas?" I asked.

"I can't see anything wrong with it," he said in a low voice. "And that worries me. I'd sure feel better running this by the Raith legal team."

"Now and see here's the thing," Robin said, hopping off the dumpster and facing us. "I'm under a wee bit of a time crunch, so I would appreciate this business being concluded speedily. Otherwise, I'm likely to get inconvenienced. I'd really rather not be inconvenienced, Harry."

Those last words were laced with lightning. They were accompanied by the thunder of a quiet growl from Mouse, reacting to the threat.

"Do it," Thomas urged. "Make the trade. I do _not_ want any of my body parts being swapped out."

"Show me Toot-toot."

He didn't even wave his hand, or speak, or anything. He just stood there, and suddenly a little globe of light streaked down the alley to stop in front of me. 

"Hail the Za Lord! I knew you would successfully complete the prisoner exchange!"

"You okay, Toot-toot?"

"Your commander is fit for duties!" He smacked his forehead with the back of his hand. It was his salute. Then he dropped it, all thirteen inches of him quivering with excitement, lavender hair a wild shock around his head. The weapons I'd given him and the armor he'd cobbled together from Coke cans and Pepto-Bismol bottles had been taken away from him. I'd have to get him another razor knife and letter opener set. At least he was clothed in normal fairy wear, a little leaf loincloth, and was not completely naked. 

"I did good, Harry, I did! I kept trying to escape, and I fought off his giant bumble-bee guards, and everything!"

"And gorged yourself on milk and honey," I said dryly. He hurriedly scrubbed at his mouth. 

"I disruptured enemy supply lines!" he insisted. "And well, I couldn't let it go to waste. That would just be _rude_. But the Za Lord's generous rations of pizza are way better!"

"See, Harry?" Puck said with a grin. "The wee fellow is just fine, and better off for his adventures."

"You set him up in a POW camp," I accused.

"Well," he said with a shrug. "The bitty being refused to believe I meant ye nor him no harm. So I gave him what he wanted. And I was able to work in a binding, y'see, so he couldn't hear ye speaking his name. That took a bit of doing once ye'd decided to call on him. I had to concentrate on it, lest the wee thing be in some pain."

Yeah, I set up a little fantasy for your friend, and by the way, I casually worked in a spell to circumvent one of the great truths of the universe while I was at it. No biggie. And I had given him trouble when I'd tried to force the summoning? Sure I did. The way a ladybug would trouble Mouse.

I held out the baggie, carefully fished out the pious encasement, and set it on the ground. Then I backed away, Thomas and Mouse moving with me. Toot-toot hovered nearby, probably hoping for pizza.

Puck walked over and picked up the packet, stowing it inside his filthy clothes. 

"And with this our business is concluded, Harry. 'Tis a shame an right enough. I enjoyed my time with ye, seeing what ye would do against my little games. Although the lass seemed more effective."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"Nay, no disappointment, never fear, lad. I look forward to crossing wits with you again someday!"

He started walking off. 

"So that's it, we're quits?"

"I have no more business with ye," he said, looking over his shoulder at me. "I was tasked with this singular objective, and once I return it to my client, my job is done."

"You just gave that away on purpose, didn't you."

He grinned, then rubbed the side of his nose and winked again.

Then he was gone.

"Gave what away?" Thomas asked, taking a deep breath and lowering his shotgun.

"He said he had to 'return' the hair to his client. Meaning his client had once been in possession of it."

"Oh. That means…"

"Yeah. Ilyvich was his client, but didn't want me dead."

"Curiouser and curiouser," Thomas muttered.

"Come on," I said, swinging around and heading back to my place. "I need sleep."

Too many things rattling around in my brain from that brief encounter. Puck getting involved in demonic affairs, how he said I reminded him of him and how it seemed he liked me. And what he'd said about Varya and me. That had stabbed like a blade of ice.

"And…um…Za Lord…"

"I'll order a pizza before I crash, Toot-toot. Three of them. For valor above and beyond the call of duty and courage in the face of the enemy!"

He streaked around in sheer delight.

I accomplished the pizza ordering with less hassle than I had anticipated, considering it was nearly eight o'clock in the morning. Ah, to live in the land of major universities, where pizza is a twenty-four hour a day staple. 

They were also used to my weird instructions, which were to leave the food out back. I had an account with them. I may get behind on my rent, but I would never miss a Pizza Spress payment. It was a custom deal. One time they had even called my apartment in concern, because I hadn't contacted them in a couple of weeks.

Is it sad the thought made me all sentimental?

"You going to crash here?" I asked Thomas as I took off my shirt and headed for the bedroom.

"Have you _seen_ my bed?"

"I have seen the room with the floor made of mattress. It's bigger than my apartment."

"Yeah. So, no. I'll be heading back. I have to go pick up your tux in a few hours anyway. I'll get here around five tonight, we leave at six."

"I'll be here," I said with a yawn. It seemed that now my body had figured out where I was headed, it was rapidly shutting down all nonessential functions. Like speech and vision.

I was asleep before I landed. I didn't even hear the front door as Thomas closed it behind him.

My dreams were less than pleasant. I kept seeing Varya, smiling at me in the moonlight. I would take her in my arms. I would whisper something loving into her ear.

And then I'd wrap my hands around her throat and snap her neck.

  


 


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finally manages to catch up to Varya.
> 
> And meets her nemesis. *cue dramatic music*

# Chapter Sixteen

"Dare I ask, what's the plan?" Thomas asked as we pulled away from my apartment a little after six. 

The tux, a classic fit, actually looked pretty good. Wish I could say the same of the scarecrow who was wearing it. Still, I had slicked back my unruly hair and shaved until my face felt peeled. I had to take Thomas' word on it that I wasn't embarrassing. I don't have any mirrors in my apartment. Too many things mistake them for doors.

He said he wasn't ashamed to be seen with me, and I figured that was as good as it was going to get.

"I'm not looking for Ilyvich, or Marcone," I told him. "I'm going there to find my client."

"And if she's not there?"

"She will be." No point in avoiding pronouns now.

"But if she's not? You know how your luck runs."

"If she's not then I'll end up talking to one or both of them. I can't decide which one I want to converse with least."

"I guess I should tell you, I'm here with an ulterior motive."

"I figured. Lara wanted to know why you wanted the tickets, and you told her enough to get her interest, otherwise she would have attributed all kinds of sneaky plans to you and kept the tickets out of spite or paranoia. Now she wants to know about the demon."

"In a nutshell."

"I have no problem with it," I shrugged. "If things get ugly and House Raith wants to get involved against an archdemon, I'm good with that."

"She doesn't want me to talk to him as a possible enemy, Harry."

"Oh. Should have seen that one coming. Well, we'll just see how that one goes. She didn't give you anything to give him, did she?"

"No. She's playing this one cagey. He is supposed to be an archdemon, after all. They make House Raith look like trustworthy nuns."

"Your sister is many things, but stupid is not one of them," I mused. Her not sending a token of good will was good for me. It meant she was going to bide her time and see if Team Dresden or Team Demon came out on top. That was just fine, too. I'll take noninterference any day.

"From what you said, she's not your client anymore. Why are you still getting involved?"

"Because I hurt her. I need to make it right."

"Here we go," he said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean that this code of honor of yours is going to get you killed. You hurt her feelings. So what? She's a big girl, and tangled up with an archdemon at that. I'm sure she'll be fine, and you're off the hook. Don't tell me you were looking forward to throwing down with this thing?"

"Of course not."

"Then why are you flinging yourself in his way? In Marcone's way?"

"I have to."

"That's no answer."

"How have you been feeling lately, Thomas? You look great. Strong. Well rested. Well fed."

"Don't go there, Harry," he said darkly.

I thought about asking about Justine, the woman he loved but couldn't have, but thought better of it. Depending on his mood, he might just make good on his threat to pitch me out of the car at sixty miles an hour.

Talking about Justine made him a little edgy. The way the Hulk gets a little edgy.

"I don't want to talk about her," I finally said. "There's…nothing good there."

He just grunted.

"Sorry about the dig at you. It was uncalled for."

"Yes. It was."

"But eventually, we will need to hash this out."

He turned his head and met my eyes. We had already soulgazed, and it could only happen once. Even if I wanted to know what was going on inside him with that method, I couldn't.

"Eventually is not today."

"Fine."

"Can I at least know her name? It would help if I'm going to help you look for her."

"Varya Nadeanenko."

"Russian?"

"Ukrainian."

"And she hunts demons."

"Demon. Singular. Just one. Ilyvich."

"I guess you won't tell me what happened between you two that was so bad you were groaning her name in your sleep when I walked in."

"I was an ass."

"Well, naturally."

"No. I…said things. Treated her badly. Hell's bells, what an understatement. Don't hit me for what I'm about to say, I'm just trying to explain. Imagine—if I told you that I couldn't be your brother anymore, because I found out you were the same kind of monster your father was. That you'd lied to me about how you grew up. That you were just using Justine in some twisted vampire game. That all evidence to the contrary, all our history, that was what I believed. And told you in no uncertain terms. Then I threatened to kill you."

Sure enough, his shoulders hunched and his hands tightened to white-knuckled grips on the steering wheel. But he didn't rip it out of the dash and beat me about the head and shoulders with it. A good sign.

"Empty night," he finally breathed. "Did you really think she was—evil, or something?"

"I'd convinced myself I did. Despite everything that had happened, everything that I knew. She rejected me. Hurt me. I wanted to hurt her back ten times over. So I did."

I thought talking about things was supposed to make them better? All it was doing for me was making me sick to my stomach.

"We'll fix this," he said. "We'll find her and I'll help you fix this."

"Thomas…"

"Let me," he said, his voice almost an aggressive kind of plea. "Don’t give me that 'it's dangerous and it's not your fight' spiel. Let me do this."

An act of contrition for the choices he'd made, the things he'd decided he could live with. It wouldn't be much, but it would be something. The look on his face gave me another thudding realization; the imagine-if scenario I'd given him…it seemed like it was one of his biggest fears. It suddenly became hard to swallow around the lump in my throat.

"You got it," I replied quietly.

He gave me an uncertain look, but something in my expression made him square his shoulders and sit a little straighter.

Must be nice. I'd like to have that kind of reassurance myself. But all I had was the sideview mirror. I didn't see in it what Thomas saw when he looked at me. I wondered what that was.

We drove the rest of the way in silence, each mulling our own painful thoughts.

It was dark by the time we made it past the Magnificent Mile to the museum. Once a family owned mansion, the building was palatial, taking up half a block, and was a masterpiece of 1880's architecture. Graceful lines and masonry evocative of highland castles. We pulled up and a valet hurried over, handing Thomas a ticket and pole-vaulting into the Hummer. 

Inside it was all I could do to keep my jaw from dropping. The interior was beautifully done art nouveau and Tiffany glass everywhere. Overhead, set into the ceiling, arched a prime example of the work. A dome of dozens of leaded glass shards, showing four graceful trees in leaf. Marble, glossy dark wood, and stained glass were everywhere, meshing in elegance. 

I tried to imagine living in a place like that, and couldn’t. There was no way I'd be able to walk under that dome every day and it just be part of the scenery, taken for granted. 

Discretely placed easels with genteel signs showed the well-dressed guests which way was which exhibit, the facilities, the open bar.

"Where do we start?" Thomas asked, nodding to people as they nodded to him. As ever, every female head swiveled towards him when he hove into view. And several male, as well. That was every day to him, and he didn't even notice it anymore unless one of the onlookers caught his eye.

"The exhibits. If Marcone is a patron, he'll want to be visually associated with them."

We followed the signs. I rarely paid attention to mortal news, and never to celebrities, but even I recognized several people. When I saw the police commissioner, I hoped he wouldn't recognize me.

"Oh, hell," Thomas said, ducking behind me.

"What is it?"

"'What' is appropriate. It's Tina Hurtleman. Grand dame of Chicago. She latches on to me and I'm done for the night. She will never let go, and I won't be able to extract myself without giving offense."

"She looks like Elrond," I observed. "You know, Hugo Weaving from the movies."

"She acts like Gollum. Come on, man. Help me!" 

"Me? What do you want me to do?"

"How about some of that voodoo that you do so well?" he hissed.

"You want me to create a glamour, on the fly, without any of my tools, in a crowded room full of people, with an archdemon and Marcone's Valhalla security forces hanging around. Dude." I had my blasting rod in my suit coat, and my bracelet, so I wasn’t entirely helpless. But I was not going to pull them out to fend off an obnoxious woman.

"You are _such_ a sissy."

"I'm not the one hiding from the little old lady."

"You want my help for tonight? I'm telling you, she sinks her claws in me and you won't be getting it."

"Fine, fine, stay in my shadow, you terrifying monster you. I won't let the creature of the night thrill you, chill you, or fulfill you. Let's get to that door over there and you can slip out. Meet up with me once you give her the slip."

"What door? Some of us weren't born on stilts."

"Just follow me," I sighed. I began making my way through the room, which was getting more crowded by the second. If it had been anyone but Thomas I would have said that no one would be able to single out an individual in that throng. But it was Thomas, the preternaturally gorgeous. 

It was a strange, almost crablike method of traverse, but it got him safely to the doorway. He lost no time vanishing through it. Shaking my head, I kept going through to the exhibits.

I had been expecting some monstrosities of modern art; internal organs and high heels, or desiccated corpses in designer clothes or something. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the artwork being displayed was actually something I could appreciate, and in keeping with the nouveau décor of the Dreihaus. Delicate sculptures in precious and semi-precious metals, with slides of colored glass and slices of gradient stone. They showed scenes of nature.

I paused by one, with a base of pewter grass, dotted with flowers of turquoise and jasper. A weeping willow of silver draped bright branches over the grass, looking like they were being gently stirred by a breeze. It was backed by a thin, translucent segment of citrine. The whole thing was about a foot cubed. I quite liked it.

The little placard on the plinth beneath it read, _Pastoral #5._ With a price.

I didn't quite like it so much anymore.

And I took a great deal more care with my movements. That piece cost more than the entire year lease on my office. And that was one of the little ones.

Thomas had been right about one thing. My height gave me the advantage in a crowd situation. I was able to look over the heads of everyone around, searching for my targets. No platinum blonde, and no Marcone. I had no idea what Ilyvich looked like other than what Varya had told me. I didn't figure he'd be hard to find at six feet five inches. If that was how tall the priest had been back in the day, I was surprised he didn't end up burned at the stake. Just like today, that was considered an abnormal height. Rather than snagging him for the Ukrainian Basketball League, they would have figured he'd been touched by the devil.

I guess him being a priest saved him from that, at least. Small favors.

I wandered from room to room, the exhibit taking up several, and each chamber as resplendent as the last. I had to keep reminding myself that I was working, not there to see the sights.

Eventually I found myself back under the tree dome. Exasperated, I changed trajectory and went to the bar instead. 

Coke in hand, I moved out of the way, wondering where Thomas had gotten to.

When I saw him leaning against the wall, half-smile in place, half-lidded eyes in evidence, talking to someone hidden by a topiary, I got my answer. He'd found a snack.

I stalked over to him.

"She had better be Marilyn Monroe," I whispered to him. He snapped out of hunting mode and gave me an abashed look.

"Sorry. Let me introduce you," he said hurriedly. "Harry, this is—"

"We've met," said the voice that had haunted my dreams.

I edged around so I could see past the shapely shrub.

"Varya."

"Why are you here, Mr. Dresden?" she asked coldly. "I am not creating any disturbance. Are you ready to destroy me so soon?"

Thomas was looking back and forth between us. The "oh, shit" look on his face was priceless. If I'd been in the mood, it would have set me rolling.

I was not in the mood.

Seeing her hit me like a physical blow. I swallowed hard, trying to get the feeling of someone's foot kicking a dent in my stomach to go away.

Her hair was down, in the wavy, rippling falls of silvery gold I'd seen in her hotel room, swept back on one side with a cloisonné comb. The dress she wore was just as glossy as her hair, a floor length gown of heavy cream colored satin. She had been poured into it. It had a single strap that went around the back of her neck, leaving her alabaster shoulders bare. The sweetheart bodice showed her décolletage to great advantage. It looked like something Veronica Lake or Rita Hayworth would have worn. A 1930s glamor dress. It suited her, accentuating her hourglass curves, her height. She barely had to look up into my face; she was wearing heels for the occasion. A beaded clutch was gripped in one hand.

When your only source of film-based entertainment is the drive-in theater, you see a lot of black and white movies. I paid attention to the ladies. I won't apologize for that.

"I'm not here for that," I said, trying to sort through the disorientation caused by waves of desire and shame flooding through me.

"Then why are you here, Mr. Dresden? I told you to keep the retainer."

"I want to help you."

She gave a harsh little chuckle. "You want to help the Fallen? I am afraid I don't believe you."

"Varya—"

"I did not realize you would be here. Once my objective is met, I will depart. I do not recommend starting anything now. If you will excuse me, I don't believe you could have anything else you could possibly say to me. You should leave." It was a warning, but not from anything she would do. Another sideways caution, letting me know that there were dangerous people here that I didn't want to mess with.

Damn damn damn this _hurt_.

She turned to sweep away, magnificent in the way she drew the invisible, icy mantle around her.

"I'm sorry."

That made her pause, but she did not turn around. I could hear her thoughts as if she were broadcasting them. 

_No, no, no, Harry, don’t do this. Spit at me, despise me, but don’t do this…_

"I'm sorry, Varya." The apology wasn't just for what I had said and done to her outside of Michael's house, but in denying her wishes. "I know that the words aren't enough. I don't know what words could help after what I did, after what I said. But I am sorry. And I want to help you."

"To get me out of Chicago faster," she scorned. "I told you I will not leave until I have completed my business. Business you have no part in. Unless you are here to stop me?"

"No—look, is there somewhere we can talk? In private?"

Now she did look over her shoulder. "No. I don't see the need. I thank you for your apology, but you were right to sever ties." The blizzard softened, the barest bit. It was still a front. I had thrown my hatred and rage in her face and she was using it. She wanted me to keep hating her, but she couldn't keep it up. "This is for the best, Harry."

"No. I'm not letting you go. Not like this."

She took a deep breath, I could see the muscles in her back move. "You already did."

And she swept away into the crowd. I couldn't stop her short of manhandling her.

"Wow," Thomas said. 

"Yeah," I replied, taking a glug of Coke, wishing it were something stronger.

"Normally I'd be making a bunch of jokes right now about how she's out of your league, but…"

"But?" It came out nearly a snarl.

For an answer, he just reached out and put his hand on my shoulder.

"There wasn't anything funny about that. You—want her, don't you?"

I rounded on him.

"That's not what I meant!" he said quickly, holding up a hand. "I meant, you want _her_. With you. You want to be with her. Have a relationship."

"Yes."

"And she wants you."

"Yes."

"This isn't just you, is it," he asked with that startling insight he kept hidden. In his family, it was best if they thought him a vapid playboy. He had the act down to a science. "This is something in her life. It isn't only the danger in yours."

"Yes."

"Bad?"

I nodded.

"How bad?"

"Destruction of my soul bad."

"Oh, come on, stop being—wait, you meant that literally, didn't you."

I nodded again.

"Empty _night_ ," he breathed. "What do you want to do now?"

"If she thinks I'm just dropping it, she doesn't know me at all."

"I think she's hoping you'll drop it. If there's one thing I know, it's women, and she full well expects you to stick around."

"Is she happy about it? Like, deep down inside? Wants me to come and rescue her or something?"

"Not even a little."

"Shit."

"Hello, there. You must be Harry Dresden. I've heard so much about you."

Turning, I saw a tall, urbane man, well-built beneath his perfect tux, with long brown hair slicked back into a neat tail, and a trimmed goatee setting off his high cheekbones. 

He looked disturbingly like my subconscious. Yes. I've had conversations with my subconscious. Don't ask. 

But that meant he looked disturbingly like me. There wasn't a twinsies thing going on or anything, and our features were dissimilar beyond the obvious; height, brown hair and dark eyes, pronounced cheekbones. There weren't even the slight similarities that Thomas and I shared, but there was still something. Nebulous. Intangible. But undeniable.

One hand was held out towards me, the other holding a whisky glass. "My name is Dmitri Ilyvich," he said without a trace of accent. "I've been looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Dresden."

  


 


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meeting with Varya and Ilyvich goes pretty much as expected.
> 
> Harry manages to piss off just about everyone in the room.

# Chapter Seventeen

"I've heard a lot about you as well, Mr. Ilyvich," I said, gamely sticking my own paw out. A firm handshake, no measuring testosterone with squeezing, no attempts to dominate. I could tell he didn't need to. He knew he was the dominant life form in the room. 

"Good things, I hope," he said with a twinkle in his dark eye and a chuckle.

"Not even a little."

"That's a pity. Mr. Marcone has told me _all_ about your exploits." He gave a cultured laugh. "Are you even human, Mr. Dresden?"

"Negative," I told him. "I am a meat popcicle."

I have mentioned the problem I have with sarcasm, right? The less I like a person, the worse it gets.

And I did not like him even a little teeny bit.

It made him blink. That was one of the things about beings that wield untold power, with the ability to control people's lives, instill fear, all that sort of thing. They usually had no idea how to handle disrespect on the scale I was capable of delivering it.

It just wasn't _done_ , darling.

"I believe we have another mutual acquaintance, Dimmy."

Ah, the familiar nickname. It worked like a charm to wriggle my way under people's skin, like a chigger. A six-foot-six magical chigger under the skin would get most anyone's attention.

The smile became strained. "Yes?"

"Yeah. Little guy. Likes to play tricks. Smart mouth, extremely powerful. Name rhymes with 'buck'." I almost substituted another word for 'buck', but considered my surroundings. I was in high society, after all.

The dark eyes turned ugly, the polished magnanimity vanishing. "I should have known better than to trust his kind," he muttered. "I had been under the impression he was unable to divulge any information about me."

"Oh, he didn't tell me a thing. I just figured it out. It's what I do. But I must thank you for making the introduction possible. It was enlightening. And ever so flattering. He told me he liked me. That I reminded him of himself."

"Did he."

"Yup. In very plain language. It was kind of surprising, considering how rare being straightforward is for his culture."

"I can't imagine what he would mean by it."

"Probably the smart mouth."

"That I can believe."

"And definitely in unpredictability. Maybe even a little in the power department," I said modestly. "Like I said, it was flattering."

"Speaking of acquaintances will segue nicely to our final acquaintance. Lovely creature, isn't she? Have you had the pleasure yet?"

He wasn't talking about meeting her. Thomas stirred behind me. I felt caution radiating from him. He of all people knew my hair-trigger when it came to women. The more I cared about them the worse it was, so I don't think I need to explain how bad it could get with Varya as the subject.

"No," I said shortly.

"Oh you should. At your earliest convenience. She tastes like the finest floral wine and chocolate, Mr. Dresden."

"We're keeping it professional." Keep it together, Harry. You've been baited by better than this guy. Or worse. That perspective thing again.

"Then that changes nothing. She is a professional. It was how she survived for many, _many_ years. You would probably be able to work out a barter exchange. Service for service?" 

I shook my head with a smile. It felt like I was baring my teeth. "Some of us can keep it in our pants, Dimmy."

"Why should you bother? Particularly with someone like her? Perhaps you're shy. If you like, I can arrange things so she would be the aggressor."

"I'm an old fashioned kind of guy. Dinner, dancing, flowers, that sort of thing. I wouldn’t expect you to understand." At my sides, my hands slowly curled into fists. Even the two not-working-so-well fingers on my gloved left hand managed a passable tightness.

"A waste of time when the end result is all that matters. You don't need those kinds of bribes with her."

"It's the way I am. A human failing, I'm sure."

"Then perhaps I could give you just a few tips. No means yes, and she performs best when properly…motivated. Give me half an hour with her and I could get her to give you the night of your wildest dreams. Believe me when I say she responds to my touch in all manner of interesting ways, and she begs so prettily."

All the lights in the room blew in a shower of sparks and smoke. There were cries of surprise as cell phones and tablets self-destructed in hands, pockets, and purses. Digital watches shocked their wearers with static-like zaps.

Ilyvich glanced around and smirked broadly.

I felt Thomas take my arm. I fought to clear away the red tide that had built inside me.

"Dmitri, I believe I did ask you not to provoke him should he show up at one of these. It's very hard on the electrical, and now insurance will have to cover these people's losses."

John Marcone strolled up, with his ever present bodyguard. The red-headed slab of beef that was Hendricks and the Valkyrie Ms. Gard. I didn't call her a Valkyrie because she was a tall, blond, and Nordic. I called her a Valkyrie because she was one.

"Hello, John," I said amiably. 

All four of us ignored the stirring and consternation of the other patrons around us. A clear voice was heard apologizing for the inconvenience. A circuit breaker must have overloaded causing an electromagnetic burst. Terribly sorry. Compensation forthcoming. They began ushering well-bred people like well-bred sheep to another room, promising a return of the open bar elsewhere.

"Mr. Dresden," he replied. He wasn't physically imposing. He didn't need to be. Beneath the perfectly fitted custom tuxedo he was remarkably muscular, although a bit on the lean side. Neatly brushed short grey hair on a well-shaped head. And an expression that made Mount Rushmore look like excited fangirls by comparison.

I knew he hated it when I called him by his first name. He knew I knew, and had come to a sort of acceptance.

Until he could figure out how to permanently persuade me to stop.

"John, your timing is impeccable, as always," Ilyvich said. "I believe Mr. Dresden was about to pay you his compliments and depart."

"Was he?" Marcone turned eyes the color of old dollar bills my way. No threat of a soulgaze. He had trapped me into one within seconds of our first meeting. "That doesn't sound like him. If I could have your ear for a moment, Dmitri."

He pulled Ilyvich to the side by force of will alone. That was fine by me. I was hanging onto civility by the thinnest of threads and needed a moment or two to get my act together.

"What was all that about?" Thomas whispered furiously. "I get that he was digging at you, but the innuendos didn't make any sense."

"She's nearly invulnerable, with a catch. Ilyvich is one of the only creatures in existence who can actually injure her, kill her. She…has to have sex with a man to heal, she can't help herself when she gets like that."

"I completely understand," he said feelingly. He would. His hunger operated in much the same way. "Wait, he was essentially telling you he'd beat the shit out of her to get her in the mood? For you?"

My jaw ached from the sudden clench.

"Yeah."

"I do not like this man, Harry. I think we should do something about him. Not even my family is that twisted. Other Whites, yeah, but not us."

I watched Marcone and Ilyvich talking, Hendricks and Gard keeping an eye on me and the rest of the surroundings. I couldn’t Listen, too many other people making noise in close proximity. But I didn't really need to. Marcone was not pleased. Ilyvich did not care.

"Marcone," I said urgently, clutching at the convenient straw. "What are you doing with this guy? You have to know what he is."

"I do. I fail to see how that is relevant."

"I know you. Even you don't condone the way he does business."

"He does business much like I do, Mr. Dresden. No unnecessary casualties. It's all about profit. There isn't a conflict, and I am not in the habit of justifying myself to anyone. Besides, there is more going on than a mere immortal quarrel. I'm taking steps you won't." That reptilian gaze moved to Thomas. "Mr. Raith. I will be sure to inform your sister of your kind attendance to my little soiree."

Now that was just playing dirty. Marcone was telling me that anything I did would reflect on Thomas. 

The White Court, ruled by House Raith, was in a precarious position, trying to play all sides of the war between the Red Court and the White Council for the best angle. They were supposed allies of the Red Court, vampiric solidarity, comrade. So far, though, Lara had only offered them token support and had not participated in any of the battles openly, lending human military support, but very few of her own people. 

If Thomas did anything to overtly support me, Marcone would have it shouted from the rooftops that a White Court noble son was openly in league with a Warden of the White Council. Lara would have to move to maintain their position. Make an example of her brother. And me, most likely.

The fact that Thomas and I were brothers was a very closely guarded secret. Lara knew, and a few in my own circle knew, but no one else. For obvious reasons. Lara covered for us with White Court politics, but if push came to shove and her brother became too much of a liability, she would do what she felt she had to do.

On top of all that, I had let Ilyvich get to me. I knew what he was doing, and he still got to me. Hell's bells. Too many hours on the emotional roller coaster.

But what was that about more going on? Ah, it didn't matter. There was _always_ more going on. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. I was the jester, who was deaf and dumb to boot. _Everybody_ usually knew more than I did.

"You know what, I think you're right. Perhaps it is time for us to go," I said generously. "Great party, just great, John. You outdid yourself. Dimmy, if you're looking for a piece, I recommend _Pastoral #5_. Very symbolic. Just perfect for you. I'll just find my lady friend and be on my way."

Ilyvich looked a bit puzzled, obviously trying to remember which piece I had referred to. Then the confusion was replaced by irritation. The weeping willow symbolized death in a few cultures.

But when I mentioned my lady friend, his vicious grin returned in full force. I wanted to beat it off his smarmy face.

"If you need any recommendations on how to…get the most out of her, give me a call, Mr. Dresden. I can assure you, no one can play her like a beautiful instrument like I can."

"I don't think I'll be needing your help."

"Do, please do be sure to fall in love with her," he said in a quieter voice. "And woo her to fall in love with you. It would do me a world of good to arrange a permanent attitude adjustment for you."

"No openings for you in this brick wall. Sorry."

"Come now. All men sin."

I shoved my face towards his, but kept my eyes focused on the spot between his eyes. I didn't know if I could do a soulgaze with him, considering the priest was still supposed to be in there somewhere, and I sure wasn't keen on finding out. "You need the door to be opened with unrepentant sin. No one knows their sins better than I do. And no one repents them more. Good luck with that, Dimmy. If you do decide to send me a playmate, they can have the spare room the dead Fallen shadow used to live in."

His eyes widened, and he glanced at Marcone, who kept his face deadpan.

"I had hoped to avoid this," I heard Varya. She sounded tired.

"Hello, my dear. I hear you've been looking for me," Ilyvich said.

"What have you done?" she demanded, looking back and forth between me and him. "What have you told him?"

"Why, nothing, Snegurochka." Her face froze for the briefest of seconds. "I don't think I need to. It seems the enterprising wizard has already found out everything there is to know about us."

This time the despair flooded her features before she was able to hide it.

"Oh, is that a bad thing?" Ilyvich said with mock sympathy. "Poor _tovarichka._ Was he not to know all your dirty little secrets? How you seem so innocent, but it's just a cover for a lust so great you betrayed your Father because of it? Or is it how you need to spread your legs for any man who comes your way?"

"Dmitri!' she snapped. "Not now."

"I was right," he gloated. "The wizard is special to you. It's more than obvious you are special to him. How delightful it's reciprocated. You should forget about me for a while. Focus on him. Create something beautiful."

"There is nothing," she said. The words sounded strangled. "There will be nothing."

"You were always an horrendous liar, Snegurochka," he said, reaching out and laying a hand on her bare upper arm. As if touching her would magnify his ability to absorb the torment and fury his words stirred in her. It was obviously something he was used to doing to her. And something he enjoyed immensely.

"And you still do not understand that I simply do not care about your games," she said, weariness washing away her outrage. She moved her arm away from him in a practiced motion and his hand dropped.

"Hear me, _tovarichka,_ " he said, suddenly serious. "I have been avoiding confrontation for a very specific reason. It is bigger than our dispute. Put it off for a while, until I can get certain things in motion. Then I will be more than happy to put you down. In every manner of the phrase."

Her brow wrinkled as she looked at him. "What new ploy is this?"

"No ploy," he said forcefully. "Not this time. This gentleman," he gestured to Marcone, who nodded. "And I have been working towards a specific end. It would be in your best interest, and the best interest of your new toy, to let us be about it."

"It will not work, Dmitri. I am not the naïve newborn I once was."

"I swear on my power that it is so."

Well…I was gobsmacked.

I wasn't sure about demons, but for wizards, there was no oath stronger than swearing on your power. There were immediate consequences when that was used in a lie, or a broken promise. Cosmic karmic backlash would reduce the offender's power to a fraction of what it once was. It wasn't something to be made lightly.

"You will need to tell me what it is before I decide," she said.

"Very well. But not now. I will contact you through your toy. I can assure you, however, once my other business is taken care of, I will take as much pleasure from you as I always do, my dear."

"That's not going to be as easy as you think, Dimmy," I interjected.

She turned to me. "Please. This does not concern you any longer. Just go."

"Absolutely! More than happy to. Let's go, Varya."

"Harry…"

"I'm not leaving here without you."

"How very romantic," Dmitri murmured.

The room had emptied of everyone but us and the occasional waitperson taking things from the mostly relocated bar. It had resolved into me and Thomas facing off against Ilyvich and Marcone. Varya had moved in between. She was trying to protect me and Thomas.

"You must," she said to me. "This battle has gone on for centuries without you. It will continue the same way. Please go."

"Not without you," I said, stubbornly. I saw Red and Valkyrie edging for better positions, hands edging towards hidden holsters and raised my wrist.

"Don't!" I barked. "Unless you can track the trajectories of the ricochets off my protections, I would suggest you leave your guns in their holsters. The only one in danger from your guns is your boss."

They looked at Marcone. Marcone looked at me, then shook his head. Their hands edged away from their holstered weapons.

"Varya, come on."

"Yes, my dear. Go with your lover." Dmitri said. "Unless you'd rather stay. I am no longer in the mood to talk, and we have so much…explorative catching up to do. We can relive old times."

She shuddered, making the satin of her gown ripple in gleaming waves in the dim light.

I took the opportunity to lightly cup her elbow. The touch of her skin against mine sent painfully pleasant little shocks up and down my spine.

"Please," I whispered to her, trying to put everything I hadn't been able to say into that single word.

Those blue eyes surveyed me for an eternal sixty seconds.

"I will need to retrieve my wrap," she said.

I let out a long breath. The three of us moved towards the door.

"A word of warning to you, wizard," Ilyvich called out when we were at the exit. "The coming confrontation between Snegurochka and I is a private affair. Your interference will not be welcome, and will prove disastrous for you. It is an ongoing battle you could never comprehend. Do not think to put yourself in my way."

"You know, maybe your right," I said slowly. "When I put myself in the path of powerful people, bad things happen. Like, I burn down their house with most of them inside. Lords fall under the mind control of a daughter they abused for years. Fallen angels get nearly choked to death by the very instrument of their invulnerability. Wars get started. But mostly, Dimmy, mostly, they just die."

"You have never played a game like this, wizard. Don't get involved. You don't know the rules."

I urged Varya forward again. "That's never stopped me before."

  



	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Convincing Varya to head to his apartment with him, they get into a discussion about what she is, and what her fate will be.
> 
> It does not best please him, but what's a wizard gonna do?

# Chapter Eighteen

"Where are you staying now?"

"I haven't gotten a room yet."

"Come back to my place."

"For now. I have to get my vehicle," she pulled a valet ticket out of her clutch. We'd gotten her wrap from coat check. It was a delicate, lacy vintage shawl, pale silver. She swathed herself in it like it was a security blanket.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Thomas," Thomas said, reaching out and taking her hand. "My crude friend here is lax in the manners department, so I find I have to introduce myself. I didn't get the chance to find out your name or give you mine when we bumped into each other inside."

"Enchanted, Thomas," she murmured. He kissed the back of her hand, then looked up at her with eyes wide with speculative surprise. Even I could feel the pheromones that burst from his pores. Her brows drew up, understanding rippling across her expression. Slowly he licked his lips.

She knew exactly what he was. And was doing some calculating of her own, although I didn't think it was along the same lines as Thomas'.

I nudged Thomas hard with my shoulder, jerking his hand away from hers. He looked at me and laughed. But his eyes were still a little too bright for my taste.

"You go with her, Harry," he said.

"You coming back to my place?"

"You're having a war council, right? Damn straight I'm going to be there. I may be a monster, but... Those guys are something else."

A valet brought Thomas' Hummer around. The valet was a girl, giving Thomas the come hither treatment for all she was worth. 

But it had gotten him his car fast. After I'd blown out every electrical in the bar room, apparently a lot of folks decided it was time to leave. There was a crowd all waiting for their vehicles. 

"See you there," I said as he climbed in to his ride. I didn't miss the look he gave Varya before he drove off; curiosity and sympathy mingled with recognition and desire. A lot of desire. Hell's bells, could she put the whammy on everyone in my bloodline?

I did notice, however, that she treated him no differently than she treated everyone else. The tempting mystique of vampiric beauty did not sway her.

"You know," I said to her. "Don't you."

"His nature? Rather hard to miss. But he is important to you. I will not destroy him."

"I appreciate that," I said faintly.

She regarded me. "More than friends, I think. But I will not speak of it here."

"I am _not_ gay," I said through gritted teeth. For some reason it was a common mistake made with us.

That almost, almost got a laugh out of her. "I didn't think you were lovers, Harry. There is a likeness between you."

"Oh." I paused, wondering if I dared with the most innocuous thing I wanted to say. I was in a minefield without a map. "You look amazing tonight, by the way."

"Thank you. So do you."

"Yeah, who knew I clean up this good?"

"I suspected." Was that a compliment? Had we gotten back to that stage yet? Once again, the bittersweet hope rose inside me. I stomped on it, kicked it into a closet, and locked the door.

"So…are we good?"

She sighed. "I don't even know what that means right now."

"First off, it means that you forgive me."

"You misunderstood. I did not correct you. There is nothing to forgive."

"I wouldn't let you correct me. I didn't want to hear it. I wouldn't have listened."

"It served my purpose. You separated yourself from me. I decided it was for the best."

"I don’t know if there is a phrase in the English language I hate more than that one. 'It's for the best.' So many awful things are done, and they're all justified by waving that banner around. If it's for the best, why does it leave so many miserable people around afterwards?"

"Were you?"

"What? Miserable?"

"Yes," she said in a small voice.

"More than I have been in a long time," said in a matching tone. "I had forgotten what it was like to want someone like that. It was a painful reminder. I still want it."

"How much do you know? About me?"

"Everything, I think."

She turned her face away abruptly, but not before I saw the glitter of tears in her eyes.

"You must despise me."

"Why? Why must I despise you?"

"I am unclean. Tainted." Her pale shoulders hunched, her crossed arms tightened. "Broken."

"You—" I was interrupted by the valet finally bringing her rental around. This time it was a midnight blue Lincoln Navigator. I beat the valet to the punch and handed her into the driver's seat myself. As she settled, I saw a flash of impossibly long, shapely legs, with strappy cream colored heels winding around slender ankles. 

I had to fight the impulse to run my hand up her calf. Instead I shut the door and went around to the other side.

"The confrontation with Dmitri will be soon," she said, all evidence of tears gone. "Despite what he said about other business. I will need to prepare."

"When it's time, take me with you."

"No."

"I know it's supposed to be a one-on-one combat between the two of you, but you can't tell me he doesn't cheat and bring friends."

"It has never been between the two of us, but the three of us."

"Three?"

"Father Ilya Gavril. He still exists, Harry. Some part of him still survives inside that abomination. When he is strong enough, he helps me." Old, old pain. So old I doubt she even realized she lived with it anymore.

"Like he did when he bound Czernobog to himself permanently."

"Yes. He could have freed himself. Forever. But doing so would have endangered countless others, and denied me the chance to destroy the creature responsible for the suffering of billions. I never face the demon alone."

"Just to save the teeming masses?" 

"Of course. Father Gavril is selfless."

"No. He did it save you."

"How…do you know that?"

"Because it's what I would do."

Fierce blinking at the road, she forced herself out of the past. "He is my ally against Dmitri."

"But he's obviously not enough, Varya. I can hurt Ilyvich, enough for you to end this! You talk about Gavril's freedom, but what about yours?"

"Once I defeat him, without your help, I will be free. Then I will be purified."

"Purified?"

She gave me an oblique glance. "This part you do not know?"

"I guess not. I was told that you kill Ilyvich, free Gavril's soul, and you get to go home."

"That is true," she said, but not before I caught the flash of guilt. She was a worse liar and dissimulator than I was, and that was saying something.

"What are you not telling me."

"It is of little import."

"Let me decide that. Please, Varya. I need to know. Ignorance let me do and say horrible things to you. Don't do that to me again." An odd moment of déjà vu. Similar conversations between me and Karrin Murphy, only it was Murphy demanding answers I was unwilling to give. My keeping her in the dark had almost gotten her killed.

She relented, but still tried to obfuscate. "It is as you said. When I kill Gavril's body, banishing Czernobog and releasing Gavril, I will return to the Host."

"I knew that. What else? What is the purification? What does that entail, exactly?"

She took a deep breath. I tried to steel myself. It was obvious I was not going to like any of the answers I was going to get.

"All that is Varya Nadeanenko will be no more. What I am will be burned away in cleansing fire and I will be reborn as I was before I was granted a mortal body and free will."

"What…I mean…I knew you would go home, but…"

"I cannot return to the service of my Father with the weight of what I have become," she said gently. "A millennium of whoring, of killing. Of lust, pride, and envy. It must all be purified with the holy flame."

"So you accomplish your mission and get rewarded with _oblivion_?" I demanded. "I thought your Dad has been all about benevolence and forgiveness for the last two-thousand years."

"Angels don't get forgiven, Harry. That is solely the privilege of man."

"Then what is all this about if not forgiveness?"

"It is a punishment, a lesson, and a correction of past errors. Atonement. As I cannot be forgiven, the offending memories and personality must be destroyed. The weakness will be obliterated, and I will be free."

"You will be _gone!_ " A few lights started flickering on the console of the Navigator. 

"Yes," she said simply.

"I don't believe this," I snarled. 

"It is what is right. It is what has been ordained. It must and will be."

"Bullshit," I growled. "You made a mistake, Varya. A mistake, that was all. And when you make up for it, when you win, you get destroyed? What is that?"

"That is my fate," she said simply.

"I don't do fate," I told her.

"That is a human gift," she said. "It is your birthright. You have the ability, the expectation, to change your fate."

"You are human now, you were given free will. It's your ability now, too."

"No. The free will I was given was only ever meant to be temporary. To assist. To aid. Never to circumvent my path or the will of my Father. I wasn't strong enough to avoid the pitfall of pride."

"I'm not buying _any_ of this crap!"

There was a metallic snap, and smoke wafted out of the vents. Closing my eyes, I calmed myself down. I'd been a walking EMP all night. The last thing I needed to do was blow out yet another vehicle. Although, the _Beetle_ was Puck's fault, not mine.

At least I didn't burn down the Dreihaus. That happens with alarming frequency.

"Perhaps it would be best if we completed this conversation after we got to your home."

"I think perhaps you're right. And it will be completed. I'm not giving up on this. Or you."

"Look in the back seat. Under the blanket."

I did so, and found a familiar sports bag.

"Thanks."

"I was going to return it to your office before I left town. I would have returned it earlier but…"

"But I kind of threatened mayhem."

"Yes."

"Varya…I still…I can't tell you how much I regret…"

"You should hate me."

"I tried. It didn't take."

"It would be best if you could."

"I think I'm going to have to disagree. Hating people hurts, and loving people hurts. If I had to choose between the pains, I'd have to go with the pain loving someone."

"Do _not_ love me, Harry Dresden," she said with startling vehemence. "If you value your soul, _do not_."

"I know it's a terrible risk, for both of us."

"I was married once." Just like that, the abrupt fierceness was gone, she was back to her usual composure.

"Uh…you were?"

"Yes. Many centuries ago. He loved me, and I loved him. He convinced me that it was all right for me to live my own life. That I had done enough. That I could leave Dmitri to others. I could lay down my sword and find what peace I may, with him."

"What happened?" I couldn't stop myself from asking.

"I beheaded him on our wedding night."

Ouch. 

"He was possessed," I said, feeling a little nauseous.

"Yes. He had disobeyed his father in marrying me, and did not repent it. It was enough. That was the second time I was confronted by the face of my beloved as he tormented me. He managed to regain control, for the briefest of moments."

"And you had to kill him."

"After he told me he loved me. After he told me if I loved him I would slay him. I still wore my wedding dress. What was left of it."

"That won't be me, Varya. It never will."

"We have arrived at your home. I believe I should depart immediately after all," she said, pulling in next to Thomas' Hummer.

"Please come in. Even if it's just for a little while. I'm afraid if you go now I'll never see you again."

She gripped the steering wheel tightly, staring down at the maker's emblem in the middle of it as if it had the answers she so desperately needed.

"Why can't I leave you?" she asked in a ghost of her normal voice, almost as if she were speaking to herself. "I know what is right, what I must do. But you ask me to stay, and I cannot refuse you. I haven't been able to since we met."

"That sounds like a good thing to me."

"Why must you persist?" she asked sadly. "Why won't you do what we both know must be done?"

"Please," I repeated, reaching out and touching her arm. "We don’t have to talk. Just…be here. I know I don't deserve it, but…"

"You are correct, Harry. You don't deserve this. Any of this," she said, turning off the car and pulling the keys out of the ignition. "And if I was stronger I would be able to protect you from it."

But she sat and waited expectantly.

With a grin and that sneaky, sneaky hope peeking out of the closet, I got out, went around, and opened the door for her.

  


 


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas' fascination with Varya is discouraged. With some prejudice. 
> 
> The Mod Squad tries to figure out just what in the hell (no pun intended) the archdemon and Marcone are up to.

# Chapter Nineteen

Thomas had already walked Mouse and gotten himself a beer out of the icebox before we came in. He was sitting on the couch, slouched back, staring at nothing. Mouse greeted us both enthusiastically.

"You need to do something about your cat," Thomas told me. "He bruised my shins."

"It's his way of showing affection," I said, heading straight for the kitchen, the jacket and tie of the monkey suit being hastily discarded into a chair. Thomas made a noise of complaint. I ignored him. "Varya, beer?"

"Please."

Thomas shifted to one side of the couch, making room for her beside him. I had plenty of seating space. There was no reason for it. He had that glint in his eye again, betraying his fascination with her. It seemed like something about her aroused the demon inside him, not to mention her being able to understand his lustful hunger, her beauty, and all the reasons she made me crazy just by virtue of being who and how she was.

I understood it, and I did not like it.

His stance shifted subtly, the slouch turning into the lounge of a big exotic cat. His tuxedo jacket had already been taken off and folded neatly over the back of the couch, his tie loose under the collar, a couple of the top buttons undone. I watched through narrowed eyes as he reached up languidly and undid a few more, the shirt parting to reveal more of that disgustingly well-developed chest. 

My Varya. Not yours. You can't has.

I wasn't ordinarily this territorial, but the testosterone had been thick in the air tonight, and I was already anxious about her bolting on me. The presence of another strong alpha male made my primal instincts come roaring to the forefront.

At least I didn't have to worry about some lovelorn triangle blossoming. Thomas was already hopelessly in love with Justine. No, what he was experiencing was far from the more tender emotions.

She didn't seem to notice, sitting on the couch across from him. Her dress spread around her as she sat, a pool of shimmering cream. Thomas shifted and licked his lips when she crossed her legs, the satin perfectly outlining every part of her with delicious symmetry. Mouse interposed himself between them, putting his head in her lap and begging for scratches. I'd seen him do the exact same thing with Molly and Thomas. Varya obliged him with the scratches, unaware of Thomas' attention.

"Hey, bro, come and help me in here for a minute?"

"Sure," he said, lazily getting to his feet and drifting my way, gaze never leaving her.

"Can you get the bottle opener off the top of the fridge for me?" I gestured with the plates of sandwich fixings and bottles of beer I had just retrieved. "My hands are full."

His eyes finally left Varya and he nodded, reaching up. I moved to maneuver items onto the counter, my body blocking any view into the kitchen from the living room.

And then I hunched my shoulder and slammed my fist into his diaphragm with a short, sharp uppercut.

I doubted a non-augmented punch of mine would do him any real damage. I'm not exactly a boxer but I'm not small, either. He would shrug it off after a moment or two. But he would absolutely feel it.

The breath whooshed out of his lungs in a very satisfying way. I'd actually managed to lift him to his toes with the force of the punch. When his heels settled, he dropped into a defensive stance, anger blazing in his eyes and a snarl twisting his face.

I leaned down until our noses were an inch apart. Me? Use my not insignificant physical size to loom over someone in a primitive method of looking bigger than I actually was, ergo a larger threat?

Perish the thought.

"She. Is not. Food."

"I _wasn't_ —"

"You were. Lock it down or I _will_ kick your ass up between your shoulders. Am I clear?"

He relaxed, straightening and rubbing his stomach. He wouldn't look at me. But he wasn't looking at her anymore, either.

"Am I clear?" I repeated.

"Crystal," he muttered. "Asshole."

"Guilty," I said cheerfully, popping off the bottle caps with a light twist. "Grab the plates and come on."

Sullenly, and a little bit embarrassed, Thomas picked up the plate and followed me back into the living room. I had the distinct feeling it would not be the last time we had this conversation. 

Varya seemed not to have noticed any of the little exchange, her attention on Mouse.

"I don't know about you, but I'm starving," I said, handing her a bottle and sitting down next to her. Right next to her. Our thighs were pressed against each other. 

Thomas made a face and resumed his seat across from us, the plates clattering onto the coffee table. 

She didn't move away from me. I could feel her heat through the thin layers of clothes that insulated us from each other. 

Yeah, I could definitely understand my brother's fascination with her.

"Thomas, are you well?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm just great," he said. "Sorry. Long day. And I have a craving that's not for cold cuts."

"I wish I could help," she said with a wry smile. 

He ignored my death glare. "Do you really? You could, you know. You could _really_ help me out." he said with brazen suggestion.

"I don't recommend it," she said. "Vampires who feed on me tend to have bad reactions to what little of the divine spark that remains within me."

His eyes widened like someone had dumped a snowball down the back of his shirt. Or the front of his pants.

"Oh?"

"It can get…messy. It does seem to be over quickly for the vampire, however." She shrugged. "They dissolve speedily, with a minimum of screaming."

I couldn't help it. I crossed my arms and radiated smugness. Should have known she wouldn't be needing protection.

"Do you still wish to try?" she asked.

"No. Thanks. I'll pass." He looked ill.

"I think that's wise."

"And you shut up," he spat at me.

"What'd I do? I haven't said anything!"

"You didn't have to. Finger twiddler."

"Silver eyed freak."

"Orko."

"Romance cover reject."

"Role playing geek wannabe."

"Tween fiction burnout. Look at you, calling yourself a vampire. You don't even sparkle."

"Now you're getting nasty," he said with a laugh. But the rising tension had been effectively broken and we were okay again. Until the next time, anyway.

It wasn't always easy, being brothers. But wasn't that what it was all about?

Varya took a swig of beer to cover her smile.

"So," Thomas said, serious again. "Ilyvich."

"Ilyvich," I echoed, leaning forward and assembling a sandwich from the food we'd brought in from the kitchen. "What's the plan?"

"No plan yet," she said. "I must admit to curiosity about this business he alluded to. That he is working on with Mr. Marcone."

"Yeah, he told me something similar when we were beating our chests and doing our masculine posturing," I told her around a mouthful of roast beef and swiss on rye. 

"Anything shaking in your world?" Thomas asked me.

"Are you kidding me right now?"

"I mean anything that might be relevant," he amended.

"The war, of course. It's…not going well for the Council."

He nodded. He knew. He'd been there when I'd had to unleash a freaking shaggoth on a Red Court horde. A shaggoth was all tentacles and mouth, a Lovecraftian nightmare from Outside and it only had one purpose. To eat. Anything, everything, but it preferred sentient creatures. It was practically immune to magic and conventional damage, and the more it ate, the bigger it got. Babylon, Atlantis, Troy…they ceased to exist because of a shaggoth, or another Outsider like it.

Outsiders were the remnants of lost and forgotten powers, old gods, demons, creatures that time swallowed, or never should have existed in this universe in the first place. From beyond the Nevernever, the borders of our dimension, not one of us. Outsiders. They didn't belong here, in this slice of reality. And the normal rules didn’t apply to them.

Just trying to _learn_ about them broke the seventh and final Law of Magic. That's how bad they were.

Before you ask about the shaggoth thing, yes, things had been that desperate. And I hadn't broken any Laws, the shaggoth was already there. I was kind of supposed to prevent it from being captured or freed.

Oops.

I debated with myself before I continued. I was getting into very top secret hush-hush territory. If it was discovered I had shared this information with Varya and Thomas, the Council could order our executions. After charging me with sedition and treason.

Oh well. It wasn't like the White Council going after me would be anything new, and I had the feeling going after either of my companions would be very bad for any Wardens given the duty. 

"How much do you know about the White Council?" I asked Varya. Thomas already knew all about them, and I wouldn't get in trouble just for telling her the basics. She wasn't a vanilla, they would want her to know they were there, watching.

"A council of wizards who have obtained a certain level of power. I know they exist. I know they guard against misuse of magic. I vaguely know the Laws. I am afraid that is all I know. I have not had much cause to intersect their interests until now. I've encountered many sorcerers over the years, but only two wizards." Sorcerers were what we called low-level practitioners. All brawl and no finesse. "Wizards are very rare."

"Tell me about it. Do you know about the war?"

"I knew something was going on. I've been destroying more Red Court than ever before. They were massing."

A surge of fierce affection at the casual way she said that.

"Long story short: the Red Court provoked a Council Wizard into breaking the rules of hospitality," I said, feeling the usual surge of anger, helplessness, and guilt. Thomas got very still. It had been the first night we had met, and he had done the unconscionable in order to save Justine. I'd gotten over it. "They engineered the entire situation in order to give them the excuse they would need to be the injured party, something they needed for their allies. It's been going on for a few years now."

"And the Council is losing this war?"

"Not quite yet, but almost. But not because we're not strong enough or organized enough." I dragged my fingers through my slicked back hair. Her hand twitched as some of it flopped over my forehead. "What I'm about to tell you absolutely cannot go any further than this room." 

Thomas went very still, and looked like he was trying to think of an excuse to leave the room. It was because I was trying to find the traitor the naagloshii had stripped away the thin veneer of humanity he'd managed to cover his nature with. Like I said, we still hadn't really recovered.

"There was a traitor in the White Council. I'd thought it was one of the Senior Council, and while we were all chasing our tails he managed to do some serious damage. He's paid for his mistakes, and is no longer a threat. But the official story threw the most hardassed, obnoxious, loyal, devoted man I've ever known under the bus with the actual traitor. They trashed his reputation for politics. His name was Morgan. I…wanted you to know that he was, well, not a good man but he would never have betrayed his principals. He willingly sacrificed himself and everything he stood for in order to preserve the Council. I couldn't even save that."

Understanding exuded from her like the warmth of the sun.

"I will remember," she murmured. Gratitude made my heart do a backflip. "The traitor, he was working alone?"

"No. He was part of something I've dubbed the Black Council. They've had their hands in everything for who knows how long, and we can't figure out who they are or what their endgame is."

"I am so sorry…" she said.

"A lot of wizards have died because of them. But more mortals have. They used sarin gas on one of our hospitals. It killed everyone there, and took out a good chunk of the population of the city it had been in. They've attacked training grounds, safehouses, our routes through the Nevernever…the traitor managed to give them everything they needed to destroy us, and they've dragged a lot of innocents into the crossfire."

A hesitant touch on my black gloved hand, which had tightened into a clumsy fist as it rested on my leg. I looked up into dazzling blue eyes. I hadn't realized the grief and rage I still felt over the atrocities of the Red Court's art of war.

The room swam around me and I began falling into those crystalline depths. 

We wrenched our faces away from each other before the soulgaze could take. Part of me was disappointed. She looked confused and bewildered, as if trying to figure out what just happened.

What the…hadn't she been avoiding eye contact with me all this time because of a wizard's soulgaze?

"A traitor on the Senior Council," Thomas said, flopping back down onto the couch. "If I hadn't been there, I would never have believed it."

"We're not done yet, but…the Black Council, whoever and whatever they are, has tipped the balance dangerously. Again. I've managed to stop them before, without even realizing what was happening was part of a conspiracy, but this time…I was the instrument they used to break the scales."

"And you think that what Dmitri and Mr. Marcone are doing are tied to this Black Council somehow?"

"Not directly. Marcone hates them with a burning passion. They made it personal with him. But I do think they're being manipulated just like I was. Or they're fighting against it somehow. Or both. It's the only thing that makes sense. Everything, and I mean literally everything, major that has happened to me in the last decade can be traced back to this shadow organization. They even managed to hijack the brain of the Summer Lady."

"They must really hate you, then," Thomas said. "They keep stacking them up and you keep knocking them down. In the most unpredictable ways imaginable. No wonder Puck likes you."

"Don’t remind me," I said with a little shiver. My fairy godmother, Leanansidhe, professed to like me too, and she wanted to turn me into a dog. Getting the attention, any attention, of the fae could generally be classified as Not Good.

"Puck?" 

"He was the one who kept attacking us last night," I told her. "He wanted Ilyvich's hair."

The calculations on her part were rapid. "I see."

"And he apologized to me for manhandling you in the park."

"How gentlemanly," she said with a slight smile. "He was retrieving it for Ilyvich?"

"So he intimated and Ilyvich confirmed."

"I suppose that also makes sense," she mused. "I have had infernals and sorcerers come after me, trying to get blood, hair, fingernails…ingredients. Little did they know how useless it was until it was too late. I even had one enterprising young mage try to seduce me into loving him just so he could harvest from me."

"Did it work?" Thomas asked inquisitively.

"No. Somehow a very important, dangerous ritual he was conducting got interrupted. I'm afraid his own summoned beasts devoured him."

"What a pity," Thomas said faintly.

"Yes. It was. He was foolish."

"O-kay, moving on," I said, suddenly uncomfortable. The sudden intimations of violence from her were getting a little overwhelming. Arousing and frightening all at the same time. "Getting back to the original question, yes, I think Ilyvich and Marcone are cahooting something to do with what's going on with the Black Council. The fact that the White Council is foundering is common knowledge at this point. Only the Venatori and the Fellowship are really sticking with us, and that's mainly because they know they're likely to be wiped out the instant the Council is gone. I think Baron Marcone is setting something up to protect his fiefdom, preparing for when the Council falls."

"Would he do that?" Thomas asked. "Could he? I mean, he's just a mafia hood."

"Never make that mistake with Marcone. He's smart. Very smart. And he protects what he considers his with a rabidity his mild countenance belies. He considers Chicago and most of the Great Lakes his. Hells' bells, they _are_ his in the eyes of the Unseelie Accords. I think he's literally made a demon's deal to safeguard it."

"He did say he's taking steps you wouldn't," Thomas recalled. "At the museum."

"Yeah, and I would never make a deal with a demon. Not even for that."

  


 


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry figures it out. Cuz, y'know, that's what he does.
> 
> And it ain't good.

# Chapter Twenty

"So the question now is, do we let them finish it? Do we trust them to set something up that would actually protect everyone? Or would Marcone sacrifice people in order to keep his seat?" Thomas asked.

"I know Marcone," I replied slowly. "He's a snake, but he's a savvy snake. It's a fact that violent crime has gone down since he took over. He keeps it off the streets, keeps civilians out of his affairs. Less messy that way, less chance for the police to pin something on him."

"But the White Council are the police when it comes to things like this," Thomas protested. "And they don't have the manpower to be a check to him right now."

"I think he keeps civilians out of it for more than he says." I hated to admit this. I mean, I really hated to admit this. It was too much like saying he was a human being. "Something happened in his past and he's never gotten over it. Civilian dragged into his line of fire. It got to him in a big way. I think part of his tyranny is to keep it from happening again. No…" I shook my head. "No, he won't use something like the Darkhallow. He won't use something that requires the lives of hundreds if not thousands of innocents. I can see him lining up his enemies for sacrifice at the altar, but not civilians."

"How certain are you of this?" Varya asked.

"I saw his soul," I said simply.

She nodded. Good 'nuff. "And Dmitri is not prone to wholesale slaughter either. It reduces the herd for him to hunt from. He uses key figures as rewards for his demonic lackeys, setting up possessions for those who please him. Those figures have no power in anarchy. He would adapt, in time, but he prefers order to chaos."

"I can't believe I'm actually considering letting an archdemon and a mafia boss complete some who-knows-what ritual."

"Sometimes the demon you know," Thomas quipped. I shot him a sour glare.

"As compromises go, it is not among the worst I have had to make," Varya said.

"Same here," I told her. "Not by a long shot, but without knowing _exactly_ what they're doing…"

"He did say he would explain. And he swore on his power that it would be in our best interests to let them finish what they're trying to accomplish."

"Yeah, I meant to ask you about that," I said. "When a demon swears on his power…"

"It is absolute. If he breaks his sworn oath, he could possibly even lose enough power to allow Father Gavril to regain control. It would cripple him."

"Good to know."

"But," she cautioned. "He is an archdemon. We may not agree with what he truly believes our best interests are. He would think the sacrifice of a few hundred innocents all but harmless, and despite all his time among humans, he would think that you, Harry, would feel the same."

I scratched my chin. "Yeah, I have that problem with a friend of mine. He's a spirit, and has issues understanding morality."

"It is a blindness."

"I'll keep that under consideration. Back to the ritual. Has Lara said anything about unusual shipments hitting town? Weird movements of weird creatures? Anything?"

"She's just commented on how many art exhibitions and original theatrical productions there have been lately," Thomas said with a shrug. "It's not the season for them. She's getting tired of them."

"There's a season for art exhibits?"

"In high society, _mon ami_ ," he said, affecting the French accent he had used during his stint as a salon owner. "There is a season for everything, don't you know?"

"Whatever you say, Toe-mas."

"Although I caught a glimpse of the exhibits tonight," he said. "I liked them."

"So did I," I said. "They were pretty."

"Pretty?" Thomas demanded, exaggeratedly aghast, one hand over his heart. "Never, ever call a serious artist's work 'pretty'. It's never 'pretty'. It's edgy. It's provocative. It's _avante garde_. Under no circumstances is it 'pretty'."

"But it _was_ pretty," I insisted. "I liked the pewter and the other metals, and the semi-precious…"

Oh stars and stones. I had been looking right at it and had never even seen it. Forest. Trees. That kind of thing.

"I've just had an apostrophe," I announced. "Light has struck my brain."

"That must have hurt. What is it?" Thomas asked.

"I need a map." I said, getting to my feet and diving downstairs into my lab. "Bob! Wake up!"

"Boss? What's up? You get some yet?"

"You want a pass or you want to autopsy my sex life?" I stared down at Little Chicago.

"A pass?"

"Until dawn."

"Seventy-two hours," he shot back. "I haven't been out in ages."

"That’s because the last time I let you out on your own you started a campus-wide orgy at Loyola. Until dawn."

"Forty-eight hours," he wheedled. "I'll be good. I promise."

"You don't comprehend the concept of good. Until dawn."

"Fine," he grumbled. "What do you want me to do?"

"I need to know every art exhibition or extended patronage that Marcone or Ilyvich have been involved in in the last six months."

"Oh please. Really? Get your fairy friends to do that kind of flat-foot fact gathering. I am a spirit of intellect, and know more about—"

"They're holding Women's Mud Wrestling of America matches downtown tonight."

"Only the last six months?"

"That's it. You're released until dawn once you get me the information."

With a shriek of delight he shot out of the skull and through the hole in the ceiling.

"Thomas!" I shouted. "Let Mister out!"

The door did its giant Tokyo-destroying lizard impersonation.

Bob would take up residence in my cat for the purposes of the mission. A spirit like him was immune to all the normal nasties someone like me could get zapped with, but what could get him was nastier. He needed a safe place to retreat to.

I heard an inquiry from Varya, but couldn't make out the words. Thomas responded. I presumed it was about Bob.

"Thomas," I called up again. "Are all those theatrical productions big, elaborate affairs, by any chance? Shakespearian, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gilbert and Sullivan type stuff?"

"Yeah, Lara was complaining about it," he hollered back. "She's more _Vagina Monologues_."

"Then that means…here. And here," I muttered, touching points in Little Chicago. One good thing about living here so long, combined with the detailed building of the model. I pretty much knew where everything in Chicago was. I touched rooftop after rooftop, hoping I wasn't about to hit another dead end.

" _Illumina magnus,"_ I breathed, nudging the model with my will. 

The apex of each building I had touched began to glow with an eerie blue light, growing brighter. Then ghostly lines of energy began racing out, from one point to the next to the next.

Connecting the dots, wizard style.

"Are you going to share this eureka moment with us or are you just going to keep it all to yourself?" Thomas shouted.

"Come down and see," I said, grinning like a maniac at Little Chicago.

"Harry?"

Varya's voice interrupted my cocky contemplation. I hurried over to the stairs and offered my hand. She'd gathered the heavy skirts of her dress in one hand, carefully making her way in the three inch heels she was wearing. The satin was bunched up around her thighs, giving me an exquisite view of her long legs in those heels.

She slid her hand into mine, maneuvering her way through the darkness, her eyes taking time to adjust. I hadn't lit any candles in my haste.

I nearly had to wipe the drool off my face. Instead I just took her by the waist and lifted her down the last several steps. Her smile beamed up at me as she caught her balance by leaning against my shoulder. It was my turn to freeze.

"Clear a path," Thomas snorted from the top.

We sprang apart. She looked around and saw the softly glowing Little Chicago, pretty much the only illumination in the room, and swayed towards it as if mesmerized. 

"I swear, you two," Thomas snarked, making his way down. "Why don't you just—" He stopped as he, too, saw the model.

"Can I cook, or can't I?" I asked proudly.

"It's beautiful," Varya said, staring at the model with unabashed wonder.

"It's great," Thomas said. "But what is it?"

"Get closer and look down on it."

I followed him as he complied. 

"It's a pentacle," he finally said, after a moment or two of staring.

"Yup. Not perfect, but if they're using what I think they're using it won't be. It won't need to be."

"Isn't this usually where the doom and dread part starts?" Thomas asked dryly. "They're sacrificing baby goats or using the tears of unwed mothers or the blackness of teenage angst, right?"

"Wrong. It's a positive energy focus. A big one. Biggest I've ever seen attempted."

"A what?"

"You know how you go somewhere and you just hate it there? You get depressed for no reason. Irritable. Violent."

"Yeah. It's called Raith Manor."

"Actually, that's a really good example. No offense."

"Far be it for me to be offended by the truth."

"Those places are like that because it's a concentration of negative energy. The repeated residue of terror, agony, anxiety, they leave their mark. Conversely, there are places that just make you smile walking through them. You feel lighter, better. Anything's possible. Those are concentrations of positive energy. "

"Disneyland," Thomas said acerbically.

"You don't think Walt chose a bunch of farmland out in the middle of nowhere for no reason, do you? They had to build an entire road system just to reach the place, water and sewer to support it, brand new electric grid. The population hadn't even broken fifteen thousand in Anaheim when Walt moved in. The Germans who settled there were proud of it, it was a home community, it takes a village, the whole nine yards. Add to that they grew things, created and tended to life every day in the form of crops, livestock, and orchards. And it's smack dab on top of a ley line confluence. A little one, but a confluence. End result; you get a whole lot of positive energy going on there."

"You're trying to tell me Walt Disney was a wizard," Thomas said flatly.

"Think a happy thought. But no, he wasn't a wizard. Venatori, actually. Roy, too."

"I can't believe this."

"I know, I couldn't believe it either."

"So what does that have to do with your light show?"

"Recognize any of the points?"

He studied it. "The Driehaus Museum, the Chicago Arts District, the Chicago Shakespearian Theater."

"And a dozen or so others. It's not confirmed, the rest of the points are conjecture, but I'm betting Bob will prove I'm right. They're not trying to harness anything dark or dreadful to protect Marcone's holdings. They're trying to harness creativity. The exhibits are made of precious and semi-precious metals and gems, with a bunch of other esoteric materials, right? They're foci. I'm willing to bet the cheap costume jewelry at the theaters has been quietly swapped out for the real thing."

"But…creativity? As an energy source? Elements I can understand," Thomas said. "Nature, death, things like that. But something as intangible as creativity?"

"Kreamancy. It's a really obscure branch of magic because it's really unstable, just like creativity. It ebbs and flows with intensely sharp peaks and valleys. But it's really freaking powerful if you can use it."

"Can you?"

"Yes. Although I don't have much real time experience with it. Think about it. Creativity is such a powerful force the Greeks devoted _nine_ goddesses to it. It's so revered it's the number one feature attributed to the most powerful deities. The first book of the Christian Bible is dedicated to it."

"The Muses. Genesis," Varya said. I nodded.

"And Chicago has become a hub of the arts," Thomas said. "Creativity is plentiful."

"Exactly. So all Marcone and Ilyvich had to do was get the right artists who used the right materials to the right points of the ritual. And huzzah. Positive energy focus."

"But what does it _do_?" Thomas asked, eyeing the softly glowing outline with a little more respect.

"What positive energy does. Cancels out negative. And the Black Council is about as negative as you can get."

"It's a shield."

"Yep. And one that won't hurt anyone. Most people won't even know it's there. When it's active and someone crosses one of the lines, they'll just get a boost of energy. The only beings it will actually hurt are beings of pure negative energy, some spirits, some wyld creatures of the Nevernever, that sort of thing. But it will stop necromancy and a lot of other black magic dead in its tracks. Would probably wreck Black Court and Outsiders, too. I'm impressed. This must have taken years to plan and months to implement."

"Some of these artists," Varya said, staring out over the model, arms crossed. "They will have been offered deals in order to create their art."

That hit me like a dash of cold water in the face. I hadn't considered that. I had forgotten the archdemon in the equation.

"Like _Devil Went Down to Georgia_ kinds of deals?" Thomas asked.

"Yes. This kind of web requires obsessive, maniacal creation. Like Pygmalion. Chicago is an artistic hub, but this many fanatically devoted artists? Their gift was fanned by infernal means."

"You're sure?" I asked. 

"I have seen it before, though not so many, and not used for such a purpose. That purpose is almost…noble. And meant to protect, for whatever reason. But it is still allowing Dmitri nearly to run unchecked, flooding the city with promise dealers. They are most likely intimating that in order to get Marcone's patronage, the contract must be made. It is not true, deals under duress have no force, but these foolish artists would not know that."

Feet firmly back on earth, I shook my head, finally seeing the amazing ritual for what it was. The deal between Marcone and Ilyvich. The perfect soul-harvesting machine in exchange for protecting the Great Lakes from negative energy. Marcone's focus was the physical realm. He didn't enter souls into his kind of ledgers. Not that it would matter if he did. Loan sharking was one of his biggest businesses. 

"It's practical. It's good business. They're going to be fighting negative energy from the Black Council and its influence. What are the souls of a few foundering artists in exchange for that?" I spat. "It's not flashy, it's not going to draw attention to itself. It took all three of us to figure it out. If it weren't for Thomas' information, I never would have known. The White Council can't do anything about it because the deals have nothing to do with magic, just demonic abilities, and the spell itself doesn't hurt anyone. And none of this violates the Unseelie Accords."

I looked sadly at the pentacle. It had seemed so beautiful. A true magical construction using the essence of creation, to protect, to nurture. That was what magic was all about. It was using the power of _life_ to do what was right, great power, great responsibility. It was the foundation of my faith.

Magic was supposed to help. Kreamancy was supposed to be alive and sparkling, and I had often been lost in the beauty of a kreamantic spell, the actual spell, not the results. I had only been able to successfully use it a handful of times, and never in the field. Kreamancy wasn't meant for fighting. It was meant to protect that which was most beautiful in the world; spirit, courage, determination.

This was an abomination. A corruption of the grossest proportions. Worse than necromancy, which you knew up front was about death and manipulating all forms of it. Kreamancy…this was just…wrong.

I felt sick.

My next words cranked the nausea up a notch.

"We have to break it."

  


 


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a bit of a moral debate with a sex-crazed skull and an incubus, Harry gets a plan.
> 
> Varya leaps into action, then Harry reminds her they have no idea where they're going yet. That would make it difficult.

# Chapter Twenty-One

" _What?_ " Thomas demanded. "Are you _nuts_? These guys are creating a ritual that will protect Chicago from the Black Council that won't hurt anyone and you want to destroy it?"

"We have to. The price is too high. It's not just about killing people, Thomas. The spell is being fueled by souls."

"No, the spell is fueled by creativity, and a bunch of poor shmucks decided to sell their souls to make their art. Two separate things."

"Semantics," I said. 

"Not semantics. I know a thing or two about demonic seduction, you know," his face twisted. "I know all about stripping away someone's choice until they honestly believe that what you want is what they want. This isn't that. These people know the price going in. It's equal exchange."

"Do you really believe that?" Varya asked quietly. "That a soul is worth a brief lifetime of creativity?"

"What I believe isn't important. What's important is _they_ believe it's worth it."

"Because they do not know. They do not know the true value of their soul, why do you think it is the single most contested object by immortals, both infernal and divine?"

"It's the coin God and the Devil decided on," Thomas said derisively. "When they put mankind in the middle of all their shenanigans. Ask Job."

"It's because a soul is the breath of God, Thomas. It's the will he imparted unto man, to do with what he would. My Father cut off a piece of Himself for all eternity, and instilled it inside every man, woman, and child who has ever lived, is living, and will live."

"How wonderful, if you're a Christian."

"If you choose not to believe souls were a part of my Father, then believe that souls are the result of a truly unique, one-of-a-kind event in the universe. A fusion of the elements in a manner so rare, so powerful, that the possibility of self-awareness resulted from it, in a form that transcends the death of the physical body. It is the single facet of existence that can circumvent biology. In the trillions of years the universe has existed, never has that event been repeated. Such a belief that they are the result of a metaphysical reaction does not detract from the miracle that is each and every soul."

"You sound jealous," he snorted.

"I am," she said wistfully.

"Why?"

"I do not have a soul."

"What?" This time I echoed Thomas. That could not possibly be right. I had felt the beginnings of a soulgaze with her. I'd had enough of them to know exactly what they felt like.

"I am a divine construct. Created, not born. An amalgam of hagioplasm, given mortal form in order to perform a task. I failed that task, and have been given another to perform to atone for it. I am no different from a summoned demon in that respect."

"But…angels use soulfire, don't you have to have a soul to use soulfire?" I asked, thoroughly confused.

"Soulfire is called such because it is as a soul is, the very fabric of creation, molded into shape by will and experience. Angels do not need a soul to use it because they already have a link to the Weaver of that fabric. They are an extension of Him, so the soulfire will flow through them. Souls are the purview of humanity. Not angels. Certainly not fallen Host."

"So what you're saying is angels are land lines and Harry is a cell phone," Thomas said.

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"What are you babbling about?" I demanded of Thomas.

"The angels are plugged into God, so the power just flows through them. You're not, so you have to use your soul, like a battery, to make a connection. The longer the connection, the more juice you use. I wish you had a freaking Apple iPad or something. This would be a lot easier to explain."

"I always thought those sounded like fruit scented feminine hygiene products."

"Oh, my God. I will never look at mine in the same way again. Thanks so much, Harry."

"Are you on board now?" I asked him.

"Yeah, yeah," he flapped a hand at me. At Varya's admission she had no soul, all the fight seemed to drain out of him. I knew why he'd been so obstructing. This focus would protect Justine, and he would sacrifice just about anything to defend her. "We need to destroy the thing. I'm with you."

"Thanks," I said.

"But you have to be there for her," he told me. "When the shit hits the fan, and you know it will with this Black Council or whatever is pulling _their_ strings, you have to be there. You have to protect _her_."

"You know I will."

"I'm holding you to that."

An orange burst of light rushed in from the trap door and into the skull on the shelf.

"Okay, Boss, you ready? I'm in a hurry. Mister is wandering around outside. The Lingerie League is coming up and I don't want to miss it."

I moved back over to Little Chicago. "Go for it."

"Who's the babe?" Somehow, he got the skull to leer. It was very disturbing. I couldn't remember him ever having done it before. I made him be quiet around Molly, she didn't know he existed, and not because she was easy on the eyes.

He was a font of magical knowledge. She was a headstrong apprentice who hadn't yet learned by any means necessary wasn't always the best way to go about things.

So no endless supply of ready-to-go, just add will rituals for Molly.

"I am Varya, spirit," she said politely. "I believe you are called Bob."

"I am that, sweetcheeks. You're the Derelict? The icons don't do you justice! Hubba hubba!"

She turned her face away, covering her mouth. At first I thought she was hurt by his use of her unpleasant title, but then I saw her shoulders shaking. She was trying not to burst out laughing at the spirit's antics.

"Hell's bells, Harry, you turned down doing the midnight organ fight with _her_? Just because you thought she was _evil_? It's official. I work for the dumbest wizard ever."

"Bob—"

"I mean look at her! Of course, I could look at her better if she'd take off that dress. How about it, sugar walls? Give an old spirit a thrill! And a stupid wizard, too, even though he doesn't deserve it. The vamp doesn't need any, he gets his own."

"Gee, thanks a lot," Thomas drawled.

"It was a _compliment_. You are the last person who should get pity sex! Or to watch pity sex! I do get to watch, right? I mean, it was thanks to me that you stopped thinking she was all evil and went and found her and brought her back, right? So you could make the beast with two backs, right? Split her rails? Butter her muffin? Bump uglies? Knock—"

"Bob!"

"What? I was on a roll!"

"Lingerie League."

"No thanks, watching the horizontal mambo is way better."

"We are not—doing any of that tonight!"

"Oh, that's so nice of you, Harry! You don’t want me to waste my pass so you're going to wait until tomorrow night to do the no pants dance? Hizzit the skins? Slam the—"

" _Bob!"_

" _What?_ "

"Information. Now. Then leave and be back by dawn."

"Fine, fine. How do you want to do this?"

I pointed at Little Chicago. Varya was nearly helpless in the throes of silent laughter. Glad she was enjoying it, I was mortified. I could feelhow red my ears were. Thomas just looked a little stunned.

"Uh…"

"What is it now?"

"You're gonna need a bigger map."

"How much bigger?"

"The entire Great Lakes region of North America bigger?"

"What?"

"Marcone's been handing out his patronage like candy to those little dressed up junkies on Halloween needing their sugar fix."

"Those are kids, Bob. In costumes. We've talked about that."

"Whatever. A junkie is a junkie. Anyway. Marcone's got similar setups in Sault Ste. Marie, Thunder Bay, Toronto, Syracuse, Pittsburgh, Des Moines, Bloomington, and Duluth. Tons of artistic types; sculptors, painters, playwrights, authors, choreographers. You name it, he's got it. And lemme tell you, I swung by a few of the studios of these guys and they are pushing hard."

"Hard how?"

"They're being consumed by their creative gift," he reported. "It's eating them up. They're gonna go Van Gogh soon. A lot of 'em. And they were all tagged."

"Tagged?"

"Yeah, with a demonic marker. You know how you owe somebody something and you have their marker. They call in the marker and you have to oblige. These guys all made deals. I don't really get it myself. I mean, why would you make a deal so you can splatter some paint when you can make a deal and get serious babes? It's a _soul_ for crying out loud. Do you _know_ how many babes a soul is worth? Like, really hot ones, too. Norwegians. Swedes. _Filipinas_! People just don't know the value of a soul anymore."

"This is for a positive energy focus, anything you can tell me about that?"

"Well, duh, it's for a positive energy focus, Wizard Obviouso. Most ambitious one I've ever seen or heard of. Once Chicago goes live, it's looking like each city will follow, and then they're going to link overland. This place will be protected from negative energy like nobody's business except out over the water, of course."

Water was a natural ground for magical energy. It would disperse the energy of the spell, but it wouldn't matter, the positive energy barrier would still be strong along the coast.

"Hell's bells…"

"Even if I wasn't on board before, I am now," Thomas said. "I'm willing to sacrifice a few dozen morons willing to sell their souls for their art, but we're talking about hundreds."

"The ones already consigned are lost," Varya said sadly. "But as the wise spirit said, they will not last long. They will be replaced. And replaced."

"Eh? Eh? Wise? Are you being a smartass?"

"No, Bob."

"Finally," he sniffed. " _Some_ one who recognizes my genius."

I didn't even hear him. "Forced creativity. It neatly circumvents why no one uses kreamancy much; the instability. With the demonic deals, they get all the creativity they need," I said. "This never would have been possible without a promise dealer like Ilyvich."

"And he amasses power once the artists die and their souls come to him," she added.

"It's also able to happen because of the war," I said, pain crashing between my ears. "The Church has had its own hands full fighting the Red Court. Otherwise something like widespread deal making would never have been tolerated."

"But how would Dmitri know to come here, to Chicago, to find the one man in a position to create this for him?" Varya asked.

"The Black Council," Thomas muttered.

"How do we stop it, Bob?"

"Stop it? You can't. It's too big."

"Not buying it. It's a ritual. It's big, but it has a starting point. A lynchpin. A lot of the foci are mobile, so the first anchor will have to be stationary. Where is it?"

"Oh, you mean destroy it. Yeah, you can do that, that's easy. Words, Harry. They're important."

"How?"

"Get a sample off the one who created the first anchor point, and burn it at that anchor point with an unbinding spell. It'll go, then it will cascade to all the ones it's connected to, and then they go, and then they go. Domino effect."

"Okay, so who created it?"

"They didn't leave a signature, Harry, but being the wise spirit I am, I'm thinking it's this archdemon you've been yammering about for the last twenty-four hours. Demonic fingerprints are all over this thing. It's more brawn than finesse, you know? They can know magic but they're not so good at learning it."

"Can he do magic?" I asked Varya.

"Yes, although I am immune to it."

"Final question, Bob, then you can get out of here." 

"About time, I'm burning moonlight!"

"Where's the first anchor point?"

"The Ukrainian National Museum on West Chicago."

"Of course," Varya murmured with some bitterness.

"You can go now, Bob."

"Are you _sure_ you're not going to have sex? Maybe all three of you together if that sweetens the deal? I changed my mind about the vampire getting pity sex."

"How generous of you," Thomas sneered, but I saw the thoughtful glance he directed at Varya.

"Get out, Bob, back in your skull by dawn," I ordered, moving to her side. Thomas noticed and pursed his lips in chagrin.

He oozed back out of the skull and up the stairs. I got the feeling he kept glancing back at us, hoping we'd start tearing our clothes off and going at it right there on the floor.

"So that's why he wanted the hair back," Varya said. "And why he was willing to go to such lengths to get it."

"And now we need another one," I said.

"I will go," she said, moving towards the stairs.

"Hold on, not alone, you don't have to—"

"No way, you don’t even know where he is, Varya—"

Thomas and I stopped talking and eyed each other in a combination of competition and bemusement.

She turned around and faced us.

"I know you are an excellent wizard, Harry. And I am sure that your vampiric nature makes you a fearsome warrior, Thomas. But I know Dmitri best. It's my responsibility that he is here. If I had been able to kill him before now, none of this would have happened. The deaths of those artists…the loss of their souls…it's on my hands. Not yours."

"Hold on there. I share some of that blame," I said. "I started the war that allowed all this to happen."

"You were instigated into it. Manipulated. That is not your fault."

"I made the choice to throw down, knowing full well war would be the result. It is my fault. I'm not saying I wouldn't do the exact same thing all over again, but I do need to do what I can to minimize the fallout."

"Well," Thomas chirped. " _None_ of this is my fault, but I'm still going…Where are we going?"

"After Dmitri," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

"Eventually, sure. We're all going," I said soothingly.

I could feel her eyes on us, weighing us, measuring us. There was no emotion to it now, no fear of putting us in harm's way. It was all cool evaluation. Her uncertainty had vanished. She was in her element. Were we good enough to hold our own against her nemesis?

The air of almost military command around her was unexpected. And hella sexy. It made me catch my breath and I forgot that I was supposed to stop her.

"I will get changed, then I must prepare."

She turned with a swish of heavy satin and went up the stairs, the dress billowing out behind her.

"Varya—wait—stars and stones."

"She is…really something…"

"Stubborn, headstrong, going to get herself killed something."

"Courageous, competent, erotic something. If you weren't around," Thomas said slowly. "If I didn't have Justine…"

"It would kill you, you heard what she said about vampires."

The look he leveled at me didn't hold a single trace of levity. "To spend the night with _that_? I think it might be worth it."

"Well, I _am_ around, and you _do_ have Justine."

"You can put the cranky caveman back in his hole," Thomas said, brushing past me and following her up the stairs. "I'm just having a few daydreams. Nothing wrong with that."

I dispelled the glistening pentacle resting above Little Chicago with a bad word. It rhymed with buck.

When he and I came upstairs, we saw Varya pulling open the stubborn door like it was nothing before disappearing up the stairs. A few minutes later she reappeared, carrying two large duffel bags. She absently nudged the door shut behind her with her elbow.

"Did you know she could do that?" Thomas whispered.

"No clue."

"I have sharper hearing than normal as well, gentlemen," she said. 

She set the two duffel bags down on one of the couches. They were the big Army rucksacks, and they looked like they could have been around since World War 2. She still had that military air around her. Focused, single-minded. The only thing she was thinking about was Dmitri Ilyvich, and it was making her irrational.

I had a few things in my life that could make me that way, but fortunately, Ilyvich wasn't one of them. Hopefully I could use my famous Dresden charm to get through to her. I had the feeling that if I failed she would take Chicago apart looking for him, now that she knew exactly what he was doing here. She was taking it personally.

"Hang on," I said, "What exactly are we doing here?"

"I am going to get another sample from Dmitri," Varya said, opening one of the rucks and pulling out clothing. "You wished to accompany me."

"Now?"

"If not now then when?"

"Varya, you have no clue where he is."

That made her pause.

"And we're back to that. It's what you hired me for, remember?"

"This Marcone knows where he is. I will get the information from him."

"That is a really bad idea."

"He cannot hurt me, nor none of his lackeys."

"No, but they can do a lot of other things to take you out of the picture. Remember the paralysis from the fizzlekerblams?" Thomas snorted and I glared at him. He shrugged. "They can do things like that. He's hired magical security. They may not be able to hurt you, but they can take you out of the fight all the same."

"I saw on T.V. once where they trapped the invulnerable, immortal guy in a cargo container and filled it full of concrete," Thomas chimed in. "It was effective. No magic necessary."

"Then what am I to do? Sit idly by while he makes more deals with more hapless artists?"

"Not for long. He said he would contact me. Set up a meeting."

"But when? And how much damage can he do in the mean time?

"Calm down," I said sharply. "Haring off into the night to fight the good fight sounds great, but it's stupid. If we want to shut them down you need to think."

"I fight him," Varya said. "It is what I do. The sole purpose of my existence. And you are telling me not to."

"I am telling you to wait. That's all." I softened my tone. "Varya, don't let him get to you like this. You're playing right into his hands."

She sagged, hands going limp. "I know I lose the capacity to be rational when it comes to him," she said. "I apologize."

"Nothing to be sorry for. Trust me, I understand."

"I know you do, Harry."

My phone rang, all of us jumped. Mouse looked at us like we'd all gone mental.

 

  


 


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The terrific trio make their plans to confront the bad guys. Thomas and Harry begin a little contest to see who can out-chivalry each other.

# Chapter Twenty-Two

"Dresden."

"McAnally's. Midnight tonight."

"Gee, you have a really sexy voice, but hey, it's going to take more than a beer. I expect dinner, too. Maybe some dancing afterwards."

"Don't keep Mr. Marcone waiting."

Of course he hung up before I could come up with a snappy response. Coward.

"Well, at least we won't have to wait long. Midnight tonight at McAnally's," I said to the two waiting faces.

"That is excellent," Varya said, springing into action once more. "That gives us four hours."

"Yeah, I guess I should run home and change," Thomas said, taking it for granted that he'd be joining us. I was glad I didn't have to ask. "I don't have any clothes left here and Harry dresses like a vagrant ex-roadie. James Bond may be able to fight off the evils of the world in a tux, and I'd look really good doing it, but—who am I kidding? I'd look really good fighting off the evils of the world in just about anything."

"How long do you think it will take you, Casanova?"

Varya sat on the couch, put her foot on the coffee table and began undoing the strap on the shoe. The heavy satin of her dress slipped up over her knee and rode up her leg a significant amount.

"How long do you want it to take me?" he asked sympathetically.

"Be quick," I begged.

"I'll burn rubber," he said, holding up a fist. I weakly knocked my own against it. 

He departed and I stood for a foolish moment, staring at her.

"Do you do that on purpose?" I blurted.

"Do what?" she asked, setting the shoe to one side and lifting her other leg.

"That."

She looked down and saw the how the dress exposed her thigh. Blushing, she jumped to her feet, but wobbled on the single heel. I lunged across the room and caught her before she could fall.

Hell's bells but she did feel good in my arms, clinging to me like that.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said earnestly. "I have been alone for so long, I didn't think about—I'll use your bed. I mean, your room! I'll use your room. And sit on your bed. I should ask first. May I use your room? Of course I can use your room. You certainly don't want me changing out here. Or—oh—um—"

"Varya, I didn't mean to upset you," I told her, smiling, all my own consternation at her erotic sexuality vanishing in the face of her gawkiness.

It was the oddest thing. I mean, I'd met women who refused to realize how beautiful they were, and I'd met women who knew exactly how beautiful they were. Varya was just…clueless She was aware of her beauty in the way I was aware that my hair was brown and I was tall. It was just a statistic. A fact. And it had about as much impact as a feather on a calm day.

And for someone plagued with the sin of lust she had absolutely no awareness of what her physicality could do to the males in the vicinity. An innocence I had never expected to see. In anyone, much less her.

Such a weird contrast to how she seemed to accept all her other attributes, faults, and strengths. And how absolutely flabbergasted she became when it was pointed out to her. The ensuing awkwardness would have even made the most stereotypical pimple-faced misogynistic loser nerd feel better about his confidence. 

No, I am _not_ talking about me. I don’t have pimples.

And I found it incredibly endearing. It was a vulnerability that always pulled me, cutting through her normal cool confidence. It made me want to tease her, but I knew we weren't there yet. Besides, any teasing I tried to do would probably end up leaving me just as embarrassed and tongue-tied.

Joe Cool, that's me.

"I know you didn't, Harry." She started to pull away, but I found my arms sliding around her back and tightening into an embrace. "Harry?"

"Please…just for…just for a minute."

"This is not wise," she said in a low voice.

"I don't care. I won't…do anything. Just let me hold you, just for a minute."

"I know you won't do anything," she said. It was close to that same helpless voice she'd had when she'd told me all the things she could never do with me, when she'd told me she could never deny my requests to stay with me. "All I would have to do is say 'no, I don’t want this', and you would stop."

"Are you going to say it?" I whispered into her hair.

"Yes. I have to, Harry."

"Then say it. Say the words."

"No," she said, tears in her voice. "I don't want this."

I dropped my arms and backed away from her.

Silently she gathered her clothes and hobbled into my bedroom on her one heel.

Mouse shambled over and leaned against my legs. I gave him a wry smile and scratched him behind his ears.

She was doing her best to put me at a distance, to keep me from falling over that cliff we were teetering on. The one that if we fell off it would put my immortal soul at risk. 

It was the right thing to do.

It was "for the best".

Sure enough. I was miserable.

I had to let it go. I had to, for both our sakes. What I wanted wasn't going to happen, she wouldn't let it happen to me. Now I could see what my friends cursed me for, making decisions on my own without taking into consideration what they wanted, what they were capable of.

I didn't trust them. And she didn't trust me. 

The irrational part of my brain snorted and stomped and threw things around, angry at her arrogance and presumption. The rational part understood exactly why she was doing it and agreed that she was right.

All the times I'd made this decision for others, I'd been confronted with that anger from them, and a lot of times had been outright ignored.

Sometimes my decision to protect my friends from themselves had been right, like with Susan. Sometimes it had been wrong, like with Murphy. 

Both times it had ended up with the people I was trying so hard to protect getting hurt. It left me a mess, doubting my judgment, second-guessing my friends, and wondering who to trust and how much. 

Varya had none of that doubt. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this thing between us could only end in tragedy, one way or another. Worst case scenario, I get possessed and end up killing or being killed by her. Best case scenario, she watches me grow old and die, or ends up being compelled to leave anyway because of her mission to kill Ilyvich.

No winning in this. No matter how you look at it. The her watching me grow old and die was a fear I lived with when I looked at any woman and think about how nice it would be to spend my life with her. I would have to watch that, falling behind, everyday a reminder of the centuries ahead without her.

Could I really do that to Varya? 

Words from the past came to haunt me, _"DIE ALONE!"_

I shivered. The single wizard's death curse I had been subjected to. I had no idea what it meant, or how it would play out, but it absolutely would play out. The wizard who had cast it had been alive for a long time, building his power with the help of the Fallen living inside of him. I would die alone.

Of course, there were a lot of metaphorical ways to look at that, and I was clinging to those. But a death curse was more than that. A death curse, despite how simple the words were, encompassed all the hate and bitter vengeance the dying wizard had to hurl at their chosen target.

And that wizard had particularly hated me, I'd taken his Fallen away from him. I didn't think his curse would manifest in that my friends would all be gathered around my deathbed and I passed peacefully away when they all happened to go to the bathroom at the same time. 

But with Varya…she could very well be there with me. Especially if we took out Ilyvich. How would the curse affect that?

No. It wasn't going to happen. She had made her decision, and unlike certain stubborn cusses who called themselves my friends, I was going to abide by it. She hadn't lied to me about it, hadn't tried to pretend it wasn't something it wasn't. It also wasn't what she wanted, but it was what she needed.

What else could I do?

When she emerged from my bedroom, I had gotten myself back to some sense of normalcy. Beating back all the yearning and the longing and firmly telling myself that she was _right_. Be her friend. She needed one.

She'd changed out of the glamourous dress into all black; jeans, boots, turtleneck sweater, and that lambskin midriff coat. It made her skin luminous.

Her hair she'd drawn back into another chignon on the back of her head, and a pair of black gloves was tucked through her belt. It was all very practical. And, of course, hot.

"You might as well stay here for the duration," I said, heaving myself off the couch. "Once we do this, get the hair and destroy the focus, Ilyvich is probably going to be a little bit upset. You'll be protected here, and no innocent hotel guests in the fray."

I could tell her first instinct was to reject the idea, but then she forced herself to consider it and nodded. 

"That makes sense. I will avail myself of your couch, then. Thank you."

"You take the bed."

"Harry…"

"You take the bed," I repeated stubbornly, heading for the door.

"Harry, I do not sleep."

"You don't sleep."

"No. Not unless I am near mortally injured. If I am unconscious it means I am dying, or close to dying, but enough of that. I would much rather be out here with your books instead of wasting hours of wakefulness in your bed. Alone. In your bed alone. By myself. Because you would be out here. On the couch and not in bed with me. That is to say— _Bozemoi…_ " Again it was the heartfelt prayer instead of profanity.

I couldn't help but laugh. "I'll help you get the rest of your stuff."

"This is all of my stuff."

I stared at the two bags. 

"All of it?"

"All of my worldly possessions."

"But…"

"Not all beings who live for centuries amass holdings and objects."

"But…this is _it?_ " My tiny apartment suddenly seemed like a palace filled with riches and wonders.

"I do have considerable amounts in various banks," she said after a moment. "I forget about them until I need them."

"You forget about money."

"Money is a tool," she said shrugging. "A very important tool, and it is much more difficult to hunt Ilyvich without it than with it, but still just a tool."

"Says the one who doesn't need it."

She smiled. "You seem to do well enough fighting your battles without a dragon's hoard."

"Well, 'well enough' sucks, don't let anyone tell you different. I can't even get my stupid door fixed."

"I think you like your door. I think you think it is a charming eccentric addition to your charming eccentric home."

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Knowing me so well."

I had intended for it to be a lighthearted quip. I really did. But it landed between us with a thud.

"My turn to change," I muttered, brushing past her into my bedroom before she could stammer out the apology I knew was coming.

My battle uniform was a lot like hers, only not nearly as nice. Same goth theme. Black t-shirt with the Spider-man logo on it in white, and black jeans. Kept the boots again, though. 

When I came back out she had gotten another beer and was once again perusing my books.

"See anything you like?" I asked. 

"All of it," she said. "I enjoy reading, when I get the time."

"Feel free to read anything you want while you're here."

"Thank you," she said, pleased. Then she paused, giving me another one of those considering looks. "If…I could…"

"What?"

She crossed over to me, raising her hands. I had no idea what my uncertain expression looked like but it made her burst out laughing. A real, honest-to-goodness laugh from her belly. Despite everything, everything I knew I couldn't have, it made me tingle. Her laugh was a low, staccato beat that thrummed pleasantly against my eardrums.

"I am not going to eat you, wizard," she said.

"Pity," I muttered.

Hell's bells, could I just _stop_ with the clumsy cringeworthy semi-flirtatious crap? Seriously.

That just made her shake her head, though, and she reached up, running her fingers through my hair. The merriment on her face was mixed with some sort of supreme satisfaction as she tousled and teased to her heart's content.

I stood very still, not wanting her to stop. It felt really good. I didn't even have to stoop so she could reach. I hadn't had anyone play with my hair in years. There's a sensuality, an intimacy that comes with playing with someone's hair, and it's not necessarily sexual. I've never understood it, but it was true all the same. Little girls the world over know it's the fastest way to cement a bond.

She fussed with my hair for a couple of minutes before she reluctantly lowered her hands and stepped back, casting a considering gaze on me.

"I have been wanting to do that since I met you," she admitted.

"What? What'd you do? Make me look like Ed Grimley?"

"I must say," she said. "That is incorrect. I just wanted to…um…well, touch it, really. But I suppose I wanted to fix it a little. It looks much better. And hopefully it will not keep falling into your eyes now. I really should give it a trim, you could stand to lose a few inches. It makes you look wild."

"Grah," I grahed, crooking my fingers at her. "Could you really, though?"

"Could I what? I do not have a mirror of any sort or I would let you see…"

"Give me a haircut?"

"Assuredly. When I was first given this form I was imbued with all domestic knowledge on how to best care for Father Gavril. That included personal grooming."

A sudden jagged bolt of anger. They could program her with the ability to cut his hair but not how to deal with love or sex? I beat it down. It wasn't my business, and I couldn't change any of it.

Well, I was a wizard, I supposed I could if I really wanted to. And violate the Sixth Law of Magic, which had to do with temporal travel and meddling.

But…I could do it. I really could. Temporal magic could be done through a ritual. A really complex one, but I was more than up to it. And the amount of power it would take. Bob knew the specifics of when and where. I could go back, intercept her before she met Gavril, warn her…

I shook my head so hard I almost overbalanced. What was I _thinking_? I really was losing my mind.

"Are you all right?" she asked me. Then she gave a little pout, the first thing like that I'd seen from her. "You've ruined my work."

It was freaking adorable.

This was going to be a very long night. I'd never been subject to this kind of slow test of my resolve. Usually my challenges were a lot more direct; instigated lust from the hormonal manipulation of a vampire or Fallen, sexuality mingled with the predator when the woman I loved was being torn apart by hunger for blood and sex, desperate last stand actions and what the hell throw caution to the wind making out. Intense, hitting me hard and barely giving me time to breathe. But I was able to make instant decisions for instant results and it was all over pretty quickly, one way or another.

This was a war of attrition I wasn't sure wouldn't erode me down to the bone. Hare, not tortoise.

But her attitude since we'd come up from the magic light show above Little Chicago had relaxed a great deal. She was more open with me than she had been in the short time I'd known her. All the painful admissions had allowed her to truly be herself. I knew everything. It wasn't knowledge she had to protect me from anymore. She didn't have to hide. Despite how painful it had been for both of us, it had granted her a sort of freedom.

It was probably the first time she'd had the opportunity to in…I couldn't wrap my mind around how long she must have been cocooned in that composed, icy shell she'd been wearing when she'd walked into my office.

I couldn't, I just couldn't let my emotional state screw that up for her. There was nothing else I could give her, at least I could give her a moment in time to just be Varya. Something for her to take out of her mental wardrobe, look at, and hopefully make her smile. Maybe it would soften the centuries, millennia of tearing loneliness, the scope of which I could not comprehend. My friends were the kind that when I tried to cut myself off came and kicked in my door. 

More than a lover, she needed a friend.

"You can do it again," I told her, pointing at my head.

"I can?" she brightened.

"Hang on." I maneuvered around her and sat down on the couch. "There. Have a ball."

I grit my teeth as her delicate, sensuous touch permeated my being. Soon I realized I didn't have to. Instead of inflaming the longing I still had for her, it was satisfying some of it. I relaxed, and was able to enjoy it for the mysteriously simple pleasure it was.

This time she took a good five minutes. 

"There," she finally said, and the touches lamentably stopped, but she rested her hands on my shoulders. A gentle weight. She was leaning forward to see from another angle. "It is finished."

"Presuming I survive tonight, you can cut my hair tomorrow."

"We will have to stop on the way back. I have no tools."

"We can do that."

Without thinking I reached up and covered her hands with my own. It was so natural I hadn't even realized I was going to do it. In my mind I saw the progression, drawing her forward, over the back of the couch into my lap. Gentle kisses growing more persistent, building to a fevered pitch. The black clothes ending up in a heap on the rugs. Our limbs entwined, our bodies connected. That _rightness_ was nearly overwhelming.

My subconscious and I were going to have words the next time I saw him.

"I promise I'll try," I found myself saying. "I'll try not to screw this up. I'll be your friend, Varya. I want to be. At least let me be that."

A shuddering breath shook her all the way down to her hands. "I think I'd like that."

The door shrieked, startling her back, away from me.

Thomas came in, swearing at the door.

"Hey, bro, you look great! Did you do his hair, Varya?"

"I did. Isn't it much improved?"

"Empty night, yes it looks better. How'd you get him to let you?" he asked, availing himself of a Coke out of my icebox and sitting down across from me. He was wearing his version of fighting togs, which were more black leather pants, and a black tight-fitting shirt of jersey silk.

I expected George Clooney and Brad Pitt to come walking through the door next. Dresden's Five.

"I asked him," she replied.

"Why didn't I think of that?"

"Yeah, why didn't you? All you ever did was bitch about how unstylish it was."

"I was trying to take a professional interest in you, ingrate. You had _the_ premier stylist looking out for you and you snubbed him! Tsk, tsk, darling."

"Sorry if I didn't want the great Toe-mas making me look like one of those runway whackadoos."

"Liar. You're not even a little bit sorry."

"You got me."

"You wound me! So, what's the plan?"

"We head out of here in about fifteen minutes. That will give us enough time to get there and watch from a distance for a while."

"I represent no one who is a signatory of these Accords," Varya said, coming around and sitting down next to me, but not nearly as close as before. "Neither does Dmitri."

"But you'll be with me, and I am a representative of a signatory of those Accords," I told her. "And so is Thomas." My brother nodded.

"Outside of the establishment?"

"I'd rather not. Things are tense as it is, what with a Warden of the White Council and a noble son of the White Court prancing in there together," Thomas said.

"I do not prance."

"Sashay?"

"Thomas…"

"Got it," he said, snapping his fingers. "Flounce."

"People already think we're having a thing," I told him. "Because we're together so much. Do you really want to make it worse?"

"You do have a point," he mused. "People thinking I'd take you as a lover is a little disturbing."

"See?"

"Oh, not because it makes them think I'm gay. Because you're—well—you. They totally understand why you'd go for me, I mean, that's obvious. But me picking you? Have you seen the selection of hot guys available to me?"

Varya giggled, trying to smother it behind her hand. It was like happy little bubbles floating through my apartment. Thomas and I shared a pleased grin.

"So we _walk_ in, have the meeting, act all surprised when they tell us what we already know, then shadow them back to wherever their staying. I blow out their tires on an appropriately deserted stretch of road. We grab the hair or fingernails or whatever, and haul butt to the Museum to destroy the anchor point for the positive energy focus. Easy peasy," I said.

"I don't even know where to start," Thomas said, shaking his head.

"It's simple. All the best plans are simple," I insisted.

"And the bodyguards? And the second or even third vehicle? And the fact that you will be openly attacking someone Marcone has already told you up front is under his protection? And of course the defenses on the Museum itself."

"Yeah…I was trying not to think about any of that."

"And what about the Museum. I'm sure they've got that place Fort Knoxed, magically and conventionally."

"I can figure out what magical protections they have when we get there," I said. "But I wish I'd asked Bob to look at the security system they have."

"Security is a standard electronic alarm wired to the doors and windows, monitored by an independent company. Police response is estimated at twelve to fifteen minutes if someone is believed injured or dying," Varya supplied. "For a simple break-in the response time would be more at twenty to thirty minutes. The company's response is less, eight to ten minutes, but their men do not seem to be well trained. They are armed with single shot tasers and nightsticks. I was unable to learn the security password that would let the security company know all was well when they would call after an alarm has been tripped."

Thomas and I goggled.

"What?" she asked. "Is it so unusual I have this information? I believe I said I had visited it once."

"You notice security systems and police response time in all the places you go to?" Thomas asked.

"Generally, yes. But as Ukraine is a commonality between us, and of sentimental value to me, I specifically learned what I could about the Ukraine area of Chicago. Dmitri is fond of staging our confrontations in places that would provide him any advantage."

"Can you do anything about the alarms?" I asked.

"Yes."

Of course she could.

"That just leaves getting the actual sample," I said.

"Let me call in some favors," he said. 

"What kinds of favors?" I asked suspiciously.

"Friends in the family who owe me. Marcone and friends won't know what hit them. They're distracted, my friends get a snack, we get the hair."

"You want me, a wizard and Warden of the White Council, to endorse a White Court hunting party in my city on the bodyguards of an Accords signatory that the White Court currently has no beef with?"

"You do have a point… Lara would be pissed. Well, that's actually a point in favor of the plan, but I do see what you're saying."

An idea struck. They hurt, like they usually do. My brain wasn't engineered for flashes of brilliance, and this was two in one night. I would hurt myself if this kept up.

"You have something," Thomas accused. "You have a particularly evil grin on your face."

"That's because I'm having a particularly evil thought."

"I hope you brought enough for the rest of the class."

"It's dangerous."

"Bodily harm dangerous or surreally dangerous?"

"Both. Definitely both."

"Now I have to hear it."

"I just happen to know someone who would probably love to help us out with some fun…"

  


 


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meet goes down, not quite as expected. Varya takes the wheel during the getaway and reveals this ain't her first rodeo.
> 
> During the chaos, there is a revelation that changes the nature of her and Harry's relationship forever.

# Chapter Twenty-Three

I had filled them in on the bare bones of the plan and made the necessary preparations. It went a lot more smoothly than I thought it would, and I never even had to leave the house. Hopefully it wouldn't come back to bite me. Or kill me. Or turn my head into a donkey's.

Coming back in from walking Mouse, I found that the preparations had taken a little longer than I had planned, and we only had a little over an hour and a half to get to Mac's. That wouldn't leave us much time to scope the place out looking for any little surprises Ilyvich would throw at us.

Marcone probably wouldn't have anything special planned, as I hadn't actually done anything yet, but he would be prepared for as many contingencies he and his security team could think of. They could think of a _lot_ of contingencies.

Go, go gadget unpredictability.

"Okay, Dresketeers, let's get a move on."

"Armed for bear?" Thomas asked, leveraging himself off the couch.

"Yup, and watch yourselves," I told them, offering Varya my hand, helping her off the couch, and grabbing my duster and staff. The .44 got put back in a pocket. One day I'd really need to get a holster for that thing. 

"They've probably got Ms. Gard and her firm providing extra security for the meet," I continued. "Marcone is one of the few that doesn't underestimate me. And just be aware, once we start something, he'll know why and he'll make plans accordingly."

"Won't they just move the site of the focus once we get the sample?" Thomas asked.

"Can't. It's the prime anchor. They move that, it would take them months, maybe years, to realign everything to the new one. And they risk unraveling everything if they break this one down incorrectly. And they'll be waiting for us when we get there. I haven't figured out how to get around that part yet."

Varya rummaged in her rucksack, pulling out a short slender rod I'd seen Murphy use, called a Cobra. It was a telescoping, weighted baton. Murph was devastating with it. She'd devastated _me_ with it a couple of times. Out of the rucksacks also came a couple of small black leather pouches. I retrieved my blasting rod from the inside pocket of the tux jacket and tucked it inside my duster.

"They will know that you know about the ritual and the prime anchor," she said, sliding the Cobra into a holder on her belt, clipping on the pouches, and pulling on her gloves. "They will expect you to know the Museum will become impregnable and choose a different, but equally devastating target. When we move tonight, they will assume you, in your unpredictability, will have found something in their large and complex spell they overlooked and will spread themselves thin, trying to anticipate anything you might do. Ilyvich can use magic, but he is a demon, and much of his knowledge is inherent. Marcone is no wizard at all. They will not know what you might know, and that will cause them to overreact on a wide scale."

"That…sounds really good," I said slowly.

"Particularly if you reinforce the notion with well-timed obfuscating remarks. You have studied the arcane, are a master of it. They will believe you have discovered a chink in the armor they are ignorant of. You are erratic, it is plausible. If Marcone will not underestimate you, then we make him overestimate you instead."

Silence.

"What?" she demanded. "What have I said now?"

"Harry, you need to marry this woman," Thomas said in a low voice. "Like, now. Hell, I'm considering it myself. Justine is fine with sharing."

"Wish I could, believe me."

Where had _that_ come from? 

Oh yeah. Big words. Me. My subconscious. Big, big words. And a lot of them.

"Shall we?" Thomas asked, giving me an odd look and hauling open the door and gesturing for her to go through with a flourish. I scowled at him. That was my job.

Mouse whined with an inquiring note.

"No, you stay here," I told him. "Hold down the fort. Watch for Bob to come back."

He grumbled a bit, but lay down and put his head on his paws.

"My car or yours?" Thomas asked her once we got outside.

"Mine. It is a rental so if it gets kablooeyed my insurance will cover it and you will not lose your vehicle."

"Kablooeyed?" he asked.

She wiggled her fingers at him. "What Harry does to electrical devices. The power of kablooey."

That set him off laughing for a good bit.

"Shotgun!" I shouted, racing to the SUV.

"You did not—you opportunistic jerkwad!" 

"You snooze, you lose, dude."

He grumped as he pulled his sabre, kukri, and shotgun from his Hummer, stomping over to join us. I already had the driver's side door open for her too.

"Now that's just not fair," he said.

I proved my superior intelligence by sticking my tongue out him.

He gave me a single finger response.

"Children, children," Varya admonished, sliding past me and climbing into the seat. "I will have you know this vehicle is not moving until you behave."

"Aw, mom," I groaned.

"He started it!" Thomas insisted.

"I have no interest in who started it. I am completing it."

Thomas chuckled from the back seat. "You really, really suck at this, Varya."

She sighed. "Apparently I am both amusing and astonishing this night."

We drove through mild traffic, Chicago nightlife was just revving up at that time of night. 

"At least no sheep this time," Thomas remarked.

"No kidding. I meant to listen to the radio to see if they said anything, but I forgot."

"Sheep?" Varya asked.

"You didn't tell her about the sheep?" Thomas asked me.

"I didn't tell her about the sheep. I was kind of distracted."

"Tell me about the sheep," she said.

I told her the full story of the sheep and the meeting with Puck, complete with unnecessary exaggerations and corrections from my brother. It filled the time nicely, and we were all laughing by the time we pulled up down the street from Mac's.

The parking lot of Mac's was uncharacteristically empty for that time of night on a weekend. But the three uniformly black SUVs parked next to each other with military precision explained why.

"They're early," Thomas said, poking his head between us from the back seat.

"I figured they would be," I said. "Give me a minute."

I pushed my senses out, not directly at Mac's, I actually left a nice size void around the building. I didn't know what it would feel like, and I didn't want to know.

"The vehicles have spells on them a lot like my duster," I told them. "But weaker. It wouldn't take much to punch through them."

"Leaving us with the bullet-proof windows, armored chassis, reinforced gas tank, and self-inflating tires to deal with," Thomas said. "Piece of cake."

"Don't worry. They won't be the advantage they think they will be."

"You didn't tell us much about this plan," Thomas accused. "Are you sure it will work?"

"As sure as I am about any of my plans."

"Why doesn't that fill me with reassurance?"

"Because you've been involved in too many of my plans," I said, opening my door and getting out. "Let's go." 

Then I hot-footed around to the driver's side.

Supernaturally endowed speed or not, Thomas had issues getting out with the child locks on.

I wanted to point and laugh at him a little, but Varya took pity way before I would have and released him.

"Snooze. Lose," I gloated.

"You suck."

"I know you are but what am I?"

"That doesn't even make any _sense_."

I draped the grey Warden cloak over my duster as we walked up the street to the bar, securing it at my throat. I waved to the goons hanging around in suits with obvious bulges trying to blend in to their surroundings. A mostly empty parking lot at night. They didn't wave back. Rude.

Of course, we were supposed to notice them sticking out like sore thumbs. That was their purpose. To be the big obvious threat so we wouldn't look for the ones hiding in the shadows. I didn't bother. Hopefully it wouldn't matter.

We moseyed inside, moseying being a perfectly fine method of ambulation. Cowboys did it, that made it fine. No Brokeback references, please.

The bar was deserted, except, of course, for Mac. He saw me and lifted an eyebrow, glancing around at the half a dozen suits scattered around. I nodded with an apologetic little smile. He shrugged and got three beers, twisting off the tops and putting them on the bar.

"Don't mind if I do," I said, moving to the bar and ignoring the attempts at intimidating looming going on around me. "Sorry about all this, Mac."

He grunted forgivingly. 

I passed my comrades beers, trying to see where our hosts were out of the corner of my eye. Needn't have bothered. As I handed Varya hers I saw her gaze was sharply riveted to a table partially obscured by one of the columns. Figured it was a safe bet that was where Marcone and Ilyvich were.

We sauntered over.

And that was okay, too. It still wasn't prancing, sashaying, or flouncing.

"Heya, boys," I said as they came into view behind the column. Hendricks and Gard were there too, of course, but they didn't get to sit.

"I apologize for the security, Mr. Dresden," Marcone said, getting to his feet as Varya approached, sitting down when she did after I pulled out her chair. "My more traditional enemies would not care that this is Accords Neutral Territory and it is a delicate time for me."

"No worries, John," I said magnanimously, taking my own seat. Thomas chose to keep standing at my back, slouching against the column, drinking his beer and openly eyeing Ms. Gard. She paid it no mind, but boy, did Hendricks look pissed. "I've been loomed at by way better loomers than they would ever be. Even by the good guys. A one-eyed wizard I know could give very good looming lessons. He's really good at it. He looms without even meaning to. Unintentional loomage."

I saw Gard doing calculations as she studied Varya. They met each other's eyes. Gard gave her that respectful nod I'd seen her give on exactly one other occasion. She had recognized Varya as a warrior, and Varya would be accorded the respect and ruthlessness a warrior deserved.

"One day, Mr. Dresden, your rapier wit is going to land you into some trouble," Ilyvich said, his eyes never leaving Varya. She returned his repulsive look with a mild one of her own.

I reminded myself to keep it together, she could take care of herself.

"A day may come when the sarcasm of Dresden fails," I said dramatically. "But it is not this day."

Marcone's lips pressed together briefly, but Ilyvich obviously didn't get it.

"Really? None of the books? Not even the movies? They weren't bad, really. You'd like them. A wizard creams a cousin of yours in the first of the trilogy. Although you don't find out about it until the second. Oops! Spoilers! Sorry about that. Wow, is my face red."

"I think we should move on to the point of this meeting," Marcone said. "Mr. Ilyvich has made an agreement with Ms. Nadeanenko to provide an overview of our plans so you will, in short, back off."

"Gosh, I have a really hard time understanding why I would ever do something like that, John," I said. "If Dimmy hadn't promised on his power it was in our best interests, I wouldn't be here."

"Of course. You do not trust me."

"I think you're scum," I said equably. "Lowest of the low, using people's weaknesses like a weapon against them, robbing them at the gunpoint of their vices. But I'm here anyway." I flapped the corners of my cloak at him. "Look, I'm all official and everything. So talk."

His face darkened at my words, but not an appreciable amount. It was what we did. He would grossly minimize how I felt towards him and I would correct him in no uncertain terms. I wasn't sure why, when it irritated the hell of him. Maybe he thought that one day I would tell him I understood why he did what he did and he wasn't such a bad guy and we'd have barbecues and picnics together.

That was not going to happen. Ever.

"Mr. Ilyvich and I have entered into a partnership—"

"You made a deal, Marcone," I interrupted. Taking the offensive with these kinds of power players was the best way to go. It kept them off guard, and didn't allow them much time to figure out how to kill me on the fly. "There is no partnership with his kind. Only deals. Don't start off the meeting treating me like a mushroom."

"A—mushroom?" Varya asked.

"Kept in the dark and fed bullshit," Thomas told her, with a leer and a wriggle of his eyebrows at Gard. Varya bit her lip to keep from smiling. Gard eyed him like he was a particularly disgusting specimen of slug. Hendricks turned a color that matched his hair.

"Very well," Marcone said. "I made a deal. With an archdemon. Does that satisfy you?"

"A lot better than you trying to sell this like a run-of-the-mill drug buy with a cartel or something. I'm guessing you didn't offer him your soul."

"No."

"Then what?"

"He will receive adequate compensation for the services he is providing."

"Who's soul?"

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"My town, my rules, John."

His faded green eyes narrowed. "Your town, Mr. Dresden?"

"My town. As decreed by the White Council. As a matter of fact, a pretty big chunk of the United States is mine, from Texas to North Dakota to Maine to Florida and back to Texas again. You may be a baron with a small holding in Illinois in the eyes of the Accords, but I am the recognized Warden Regional Commander of the Mid and Eastern United States of America, commissioned by the Senior Council. My authority is undisputed by the Accords. If your pal Dimmy here is doing anything that violates the Laws of Magic I will have a very serious problem with that, John. If I even suspect he's violating the Laws, I will pull every Warden under my command to Chicago and we will begin tearing this town apart. And I will be well within my rights. Now. Answer the fucking question. Who's soul and how is he getting it?"

He surveyed me for a long moment, serpentine gaze locked to mine. I held firm. I had meant every word I had said.

Of course, he didn't know that "every Warden under my command" amounted to three wet-behind-the-ears young wizards. He didn't need to know that. Also, I already knew that my authority as a Warden would be useless, but I needed them to believe that I thought I had the ace in the hole with my big threatening grey cloak.

He blinked first. If we were anywhere else, under any other circumstances, he would have immediately tried to have me killed. I strongly hoped that my unease wasn't showing. It felt like I was broadcasting it on every available station.

"I have promised him no one's soul," he said. "I am only acting as an intermediary, introducing him to potential clients."

"Victims."

" _Clients_ ," he repeated firmly. "In this day and age, do you honestly believe that there is a single individual worth having that would not be capable of fully understanding what Mr. Ilyvich and his—fellow demons offer and what the price is?"

"I do honestly believe that. The perception of the soul has been made into a novelty, used as fodder for cheap fiction and cheaper evangelism. Atheism is prevalent like no other time in history, and science hasn't bothered with widespread studies on the subject. They don't understand the value of their soul, can't make an informed decision."

" _Caveat venditor_ , Dresden," Ilyvich said. "Seller beware. If a man takes a gold coin to a pawn shop and sells it for a hundred dollars, and later finds out it was worth a thousand, that does not make the pawn broker a thief, only the seller a fool."

"You are not buying gold coins," I said to him. "You are gypping people out of their souls."

He shrugged. "I am so very sorry you feel that way, but it is not something you can do anything about. Your Council has no interest in my deal making, as it does not violate any of the Laws. There is nothing you can do if I were to offer every person on the street a deal for their soul. Or even the bartender over there."

Mac looked up at that, and gave Ilyvich the same steady stare he gave pretty much everyone.

Damned if Ilyvich didn't break the stare first. What the—?

"Is that true, Harry?" Varya asked me.

I ground my teeth. "Yes. It's true."

"But the Church…" she said. "They have always stood against such abomination. Where are they?"

"Busy with an unfortunate war, Ms. Nadeanenko," Marcone told her. "Which is why I have entered into the deal I have with Mr. Ilyvich. That war is threatening more than just the White Council and its allies. I will not insult anyone's intelligence here by pretending that there is not an organized conspiracy afoot, and the war is merely one of their plans. I do not know their long range goals nor do I particularly care to. I am only seeking to protect what is mine. The barony."

"You're having him cast a spell," I said. "You're out of your mind. There isn't enough power to protect all of Chicago, and there's too much water even if there was."

"You think too small, Mr. Dresden, you surprise me."

"Explain," I growled.

"My barony is supported by fiefdoms, which stretch far beyond the state of Illinois, even into Canada. I must protect them, they are my vassals. What Mr. Ilyvich has wrought will protect the entire area of my responsibility, and every participant is willing. I have all the paperwork to prove it."

"Participants? What participants? I know Helen Beckitt works for you now and she got a pretty good look at the sex and blood magic her old pal Victor Sells was using. She give you a couple of ideas? You get an archdemon to put them into practice? I also know that you may be skirting the line of the Laws if you're very, very careful with those kinds of rituals, but did you know that a single whiff of them is enough for me to launch an investigation?"

"No sex magic, no blood magic, Dresden," Marcone said. "No summoning. Nothing like that. The participants are doing what they always did to support themselves, only they are better at it now than ever before. No, not prostitutes, or hired killers, not even legal and legitimate BSDM establishments. I swear to you that nothing illegal is going on, either by the Laws of Magic or of man. As a matter of fact, I think you would approve of the ritual itself."

"I need specifics, John. I can't go on just your word."

He sighed. 

Really? I mean, really? He had the nerve to sigh? What a douche.

"Dmitri, perhaps you had better explain. This is beyond my area of expertise."

"I'll explain and I'll use small words so that he'll be sure to understand," Ilyvich said with a gleam in his eye.

A _Princess Bride_ reference. An archdemon was making a _Princess Bride_ reference. On my weird things that happened to me today that ranked up there. At least he hadn't called me a warthog faced buffoon.

"It's kreamancy." Wow…he'd just come right out and said it. I had expected a lot more coy dancing from him. Good, it would save time. "I am offering creators deals to boost their talents in exchange for their souls. Not only is it not illegal, it's among the oldest of reasons for a deal. Precedence is set, Dresden."

"Kreamancy…" I said slowly. "That…would work. And if you get enough creative types, you don't have to deal with its unreliability. The deals, they're to boost their creativity."

"You're not as dense as you seem, Dresden. Well done."

"How big is it, Dmitri?" Varya asked suddenly. "How widespread has your influence gone, thanks to Mr. Marcone? How many artists?"

"It is big enough to protect all John holds, Snegurochka, with enough artists to power it. That is all you need to know."

"Do not call me that," she said, and I couldn't tell if she was stringing him along or if the anguish was real.

"Ah, poor _tovarichka._ Do you still not like to hear the terms of endearment from your time as this man's assistant? Perhaps you should seek therapy for that. It has, after all, been a millennium."

"Be silent."

"Or perhaps this man," he nodded at me, "Perhaps he can help you. He does so long for you, _tovarichka._ His desire and longing permeates the very air, as does yours. Have you tormented him as you tormented the poor priest? Flaunting yourself so naively in front of him, so innocent of your feminine charms?"

"Be silent!'

"Do you know I can still feel what Ilya felt? Some things even time cannot soften, and that is one of them. When he lay in your narrow bed, recovering from an illness, realizing his head rested where yours supposedly had, his body pressed against the sheets yours had pressed against, he would not be able to contain himself."

"Be _silent!"_

I started to get concerned. If she was acting, she was doing a really good job of it. Her hands were clenched and shaking around the beer bottle, and she was staring down at the table. Face twisting as she fought to keep back the tears of rage and grief. I was so concerned about her flipping out I couldn't concentrate on Ilyvich's words, which was probably a good thing.

Before I knew it I was reaching out for her. Behind me, Thomas nudged my chair with his hip. I subsided, feeling a little bewildered. I glanced at Marcone to see a mirror of the confusion on my face. We were witnessing an intensely personal feud that had been tearing at these two immortal beings for a thousand years. The pettiness of Dmitri's words belied the sheer infernal power in them as he directed them at her. Her shaking reaction was the wrapping paper around a titanic strength created to destroy the one sitting across from her.

Vaguely I wondered if Marcone felt as suddenly small and insignificant as I did. 

"Does your young wizard burn for you as Ilya did? Does he think of you in the night? Your creamy skin touching his, your lips moist and hot, your nubile body straining beneath him. Does it drive him to pleasure himself while his mind is full of your moans? Do you remember when I demonstrated how Ilya did that?"

He reached out wrapped greedy fingers around hers, clenched around the beer bottle, touching her with the same desire to absorb her pain, just like he'd done at the Dreihaus.

Her reaction was explosive and immediate.

The beer bottle shattered in her hand as she crushed it. Faster than I could see her other hand grabbed the smooth neck before it even hit the table and she leaped on him, teeth bared, eyes wide in furious madness.

He began laughing.

Hendricks drew a heavy revolver out of a shoulder holster with a snap and put three precise shots into her. As they wrestled, I saw the bullets hit her back, puncturing the jacket taut against her, then tumble to the floor. They didn't even ricochet, they just slammed into her and fell, energy expended.

She didn't notice in the slightest. It might have been confetti.

I mean, I knew she was invulnerable. I did. But intellectual acceptance and seeing it with my own eyes were two different things. 

"Put a leash on him, John," I said, fighting the urge to blow them all away with a surge of my will. "Ilyvich provoked her, and if you get involved, it will be as a signatory of the Accords. You will be making it a political statement instead of the private war it is. With your guard dog shooting at her, I could already make this an issue if I wanted to. This is neutral ground."

Marcone gestured, and Hendricks lowered the weapon, glaring daggers at me.

I glanced over at Mac, who raised an eyebrow at me. I shook my head, and he went back to cleaning his grill, trusting that I had this under control. That made me feel unexpectedly good, that he had that kind of trust in me. It helped stabilize my internal O.S.O.D. commotion. 

That stands for Oh Shit Oh Dear, for the uninformed.

"Dmitri is under my protection," Marcone said. 

What I wanted to do was shriek a few obscene insults and help Varya calm down.

What I did was stay in my seat, relaxed, as Varya and Ilyvich disappeared behind the table. She'd created the perfect opportunity, using the politics I detested. For once they'd work in my favor. 

It was unreal. A level and reasoned conversation while two immortals duked out an epic struggle on the bar floor.

"That's right. He is under your protection. Your responsibility. He broke the rules of hospitality first when he touched her. That's assault on her person. So long as she keeps it confined to him my hands are clean. You invited _us_ , remember? You're the Host, and if you help him after he wronged one of your guests, that's something that none of the signatories likes. They take this Old World hospitality stuff very, very seriously. If you get involved, well…you have two representatives of different signatories here to witness you violating the neutrality of the place and the rules of hospitality."

"Hola," Thomas said, wiggling his fingers at him over his folded arms. "Just in case you forgot I was here."

"That's why you wore the cloak," he said. "You knew he would do this. You wanted to let her get some of her own back, perhaps let her even kill him, and I am powerless to do anything about it."

"I don't know what you're talking about, John. I'm a Warden. I was invited by the Baron. I came as a Warden. It's only natural."

Wow. What kind of Byzantine genius did Marcone see me as? I'd had no freaking idea any of this was going to happen. This was all Varya's brainchild.

"Very well, Warden. May I suggest we work together to break it up?"

"I concur. White Court?"

"I concur," Thomas said, wading forward, grabbing Varya around the waist, and yanking her off of Ilyvich.

The archdemon's face had several long gashes in it, blood streaming down his neck and shoulders. His scalp looked like tenderized cube steak. His face was a death mask. A viciously amused death mask. He'd enjoyed her emotional torment, hadn't even put up a fight. He'd relished her going after him, drank it up like I drank Mac's beer. He got off on it.

"Release me, vampire," she snarled, twisting in his arms. She was liberally coated in his blood. "Release me or you are next."

"I believe our business is concluded," Marcone said, standing. Hendricks helped Ilyvich to his feet. The bastard was still grinning like a madman. "You now know you have no grounds to stop us, and you have no reason to."

"Harry?" Thomas asked, holding onto Varya as she hissed and spit like a wet cat. Ilyvich was clearly sexually aroused by it. 

"Get her outside!" I snapped. To Marcone, I said, "This isn't over. I'll figure something out. No more deals, John."

"You can bluster all you like, but you are powerless as a Warden. If you choose to come after me anyway, I will take it personally and reciprocate."

"Then the Accords will protect neither of us."

"So be it. I'm willing if you are."

"You're damn right I'm—" I broke off, pounding my thigh in frustration. "Fine. But a little warning. You need to be careful with kreamancy, John. It's not all happy happy joy joy. Remember his boss is called the Father of Lies. When you hit the bumps, and you will hit the bumps—boom. Remember what I said about water? There's a lot of it around here, you know."

"He's lying," Ilyvich said, wiping his nose. He was right, of course. I was lying my patootey off. I'd worked out for myself how effective the spell would be, and how stable.

"Of course I am," I drawled. "Because I do it so well. Forget what I said then. Just keep going with the insanely powerful ritual spell you know nothing about, trusting an archdemon that everything is hunky dory with no side effects or unexpected explosions, John.

"Hold your tongue, whelp. Our contract is iron clad, and he knows it," Ilyvich spat. Hendricks handed him a napkin and he used it to wipe off some of the blood. He looked at it.

Then he looked at me.

Then he looked at it.

Scalp wounds bled a lot. And she'd given him a ton.

"Kill him," he hissed.

"I can't," Marcone said.

"The vampire and the slut are outside, in the parking lot. Stop them!"

"Why? The Warden is lying and they are obviously no threat to you."

"John, you fool, they have my _blood._ "

Marcone looked at me. 

"I can't use it to track him," I said to him, bluntly. "And you know I don’t practice black magic thaumaturgy. What would I use his blood for?"

"He can use it to—"

"Shut up, Dmitri," Marcone said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade of ice. "You were the one who didn't want them disturbing you while you completed this ritual so I permitted this meeting despite it being a gross breach of operational security. Now you are going to give him even more clues? As the lady said, be silent."

"Well, John? What is it going to be?" I asked, a little thrill running through me as I realized that Ilyvich hadn't filled Marcone in on the exact nature of the ritual. Ilyvich was good. Ordinarily Marcone took nothing on faith.

"Go, Dresden. But I will consider everything that happened here tonight very, very carefully. If I discover you have misled me, if you interfere with this…"

"You'll come after me," I said waving my hand at him, picking up my staff and heading for the door. "I know, I know."

I heard Dmitri jabbering at him before the door even shut behind me.

Risking a jog, I made my way back to the Navigator, seeing Varya in the driver's seat with her hands up like she was being robbed, the neck of the broken bottle still lightly held in her graceful fingers. Thomas was in the passenger seat, carefully, methodically wiping every drop of blood off of her face and neck with paper towels. 

"Are you okay?" I demanded, getting into the back seat.

"I am fine. I apologize if I caused concern."

"Concern? You scared the crap out of me."

"I'm sorry, Harry."

"What happened?" 

"As has been mentioned, I am terrible with outright falsehood. I had to let him incite me. In order for him to believe it."

"You let him torment you?"

She shrugged. "It had to be done."

"None of that was faked? You let him do that much just to get this done?"

"Yes. I saw an opportunity and I took it. If it had been you, you would have done the same. It had to be authentic, and it was." She paused, considering. "Except where I threatened you, Thomas. I am sorry."

"No problem," Thomas said, concentrating on a splatter on her clavicle. 

"Hell's bells, Varya…"

She was right of course. I had done the same thing on several occasions, being a fully-fledged member of the Terrible Liars Club. But seeing her go through it…

Still, it had gotten us what we needed, without a full on battle outside Mac's. Just like I'd wanted. She had gone through all that for me.

"There are some plastic bags on the seat back there," she said to me, taking it for granted I'd see the truth and the necessity of what she'd done. "Can you get one?"

I dug out one of the white trash bags and passed it forward. Thomas put all the bloody paper towels in it. Varya followed them with the neck of the beer bottle and her gloves.

"This might be enough to wreck the anchor," I said, holding the bag up to the street light outside. I could see the dark splotches on the white paper towels through the thin plastic. "I'd feel better with more. Blood doesn't have a long shelf-life."

"Harry…" Thomas said, eyes out the windshield.

"Are they coming already? I figured I'd rattled Marcone enough to buy us a little more time." I started to knot the top of the bag. Men were running out of the bar, consulting. A few who had been waiting in the parking lot pointed in our direction. Flurry of activity, men getting in cars and unlimbering weapons.

"Wait," Varya said, stripping off her jacket and dropping that in, then carefully pulling her turtleneck over her head and adding that as well.

She was wearing a black camisole beneath it, but it didn't do much more than cover most of her bra and her midriff. 

Tonight the set was black instead of pink. I supposed the color was to go with the theme of the night.

Thomas appreciated the view, leaning back in his seat. 

"Can we get out of here now?" I asked plaintively.

"To the first location?" she asked.

"Yeah. And fast."

"What about your friend?" Thomas asked.

"Not yet. I may need him later."

The SUVs had already roared to life and were headed in our direction. Varya started the Navigator and stomped on the gas, viciously spinning the steering wheel. We slewed around and shot off down the street away from the men with guns, lots of guns. I yelped, clinging to the front seats. Thomas let out a startled swear word as he was abruptly crammed against the passenger side door.

"Can you drive this thing in a chase?" I asked Varya.

"I have been driving since cars were invented, Harry."

"Just be careful, this ain't no Model-T."

"You are correct," she all but stood on the brake, snapping the wheel and somehow managing to get the SUV to slide into a turn instead of rolling it. We went into a nearly ninety-degree angle and cannoned through the alley she'd aimed for. "It is not a Model-T."

Thomas was nearly drooling as he clipped on his seatbelt. Then he stole my line, again.

"You are so hot right now," he told her. That was a line I reserved for Murphy. But I had to admit, it did apply.

"Problem," Varya said as we blasted through another turn onto a wider avenue.

"What?"

"I do not know how to get to where we are going from where I have brought us."

"Oh, great!" I groaned as I was slammed from side to side in the bench seat, trying to fumble into my own seatbelt. We hit a pothole and my head bashed into the ceiling as the SUV was launched a couple of feet into the air, making me see stars. When we landed I bit my tongue, and felt like my coccyx was saying hello to my collarbone.

Thrusting myself forward between the two front seats, my shoulders knocking into Varya and Thomas, I tried to catch our bearings just as she was going into another turn. It was too late for her to stop it and the gloved hand bracing me slid off the driver's seat headrest, the heel walloping Varya across the face. After seeing her shrug off bullets without a thought, I figured a little lovetap like that wouldn't even faze her.

Still, physics were physics and her head jerked sharply. She recovered quickly, only a little wobble in the hairpin turn.

"Make a left at the next light!" I screamed. 

"Next time I should get something with a manual transmission," she commented, slaloming the Navigator through traffic and defying physical science with another turn.

I risked a glance behind us. No SUVs. There was no way they'd be able to keep up with her without something that had wings. But they had been replaced with a lot of blue flashing lights.

"Get into the alley up ahead on the left, go to the end, then go right! Second left, then first right! Then slow it down and blend into traffic!"

She followed my directions flawlessly, and when we pulled out after the final right turn, Thomas gave me an appreciative glance for a change.

"You clever little monkey," he said.

We were at Union Station, with a lot of other dark, rental, newer model SUVs around. She killed the speed and sedately slid in amongst them. 

I collapsed back and tried to catch my breath. I'd lost hold of it about eight blocks back. 

Sure enough, police cruisers began nosing through the traffic. I could see they were not happy at all when they saw the plethora of vehicles that exactly matched the description they'd been radioed. If anyone had managed to get our plates with the fast and the furious behind the wheel, I would have been shocked.

"Very neat," Thomas said, also watching the cruisers' befuddlement.

I gave her a few more directions and she followed them in silence, face angled towards the driver's sideview mirror, keeping an eye on it and the road.

"Your cloak." Varya said.

"My what?"

"May I have your cloak, Harry? The chase made me sweat and now it is getting cold."

"Oh, of course. Sorry."

The chase made her sweat? Never would have known from the collected way she'd handled herself. The stunt driving had seemed like a jaunt through the park for her.

I undid the clasp and passed it forward. Thomas moved to help her but she waved him off, grabbing it with one hand and mopping her face with it before awkwardly settling it around her shoulders.

"Hopefully we will get to the Museum before they do," she said, increasing speed once the police presence diminished.

"Even if we don't I still have my little surprise waiting for them. But I'm with you. I'd rather not use it if I don't have to." I stared around, we were getting close to a Super-Walmart I used on occasion. The parking lot was great for clandestine meetings. "Pull in there. Thomas should be able to get what I need there, no need to go to the other store. Then we'll just go to the Museum from here."

"Wal-Mart?" Thomas asked, as if offended at the very thought of having to step foot in such a plebian place. 

"Get over it, you snob. You remember?"

"Yeah," he said, shaking his head incredulously. "I remember. I still can't believe it, but I remember."

"You know what it is, right?"

"Of course I know what it is. Not all of us are ignorant wizards."

Varya pulled up to the front doors and Thomas hopped out, hurrying inside. Then she drifted through the parking lot until she found a spot under a light with a clear view of the doors so Thomas would be able to easily find us. 

"Are you okay?" I asked her.

"Why would I not be?"

"Well I did just smack you pretty hard. Sorry about that."

"It was unintentional. You know my nature, Harry," she said. "Perhaps I should also go inside, to help Thomas."

Niggling suspicion crept into my thoughts.

"Thomas doesn't need any help, Varya."

"One can never be certain."

"Look at me."

She twisted in her seat, refusing.

"Varya."

Reaching out, I seized her chin in my hand and pulled her face towards mine.

In the harsh glare of the bright security light overhead, I could see the beginnings of a bruise sprawling across her cheek, and a little blood crusted around her right nostril. 

"Varya—what? You're hurt—there's blood…But, you can't be hurt…Only someone—"

She wrenched away from me, snatching up a corner of the cloak and scrubbing furiously at her nose.

Shock exploded through my nerves like lightning, balling in my stomach, boiling in gelatinous frigidity. The import washed over me and through me in a tidal wave of terror, frustration, and hope.

Terror at what it meant, frustration that for all our efforts it had happened anyway, hope for what this could change between us.

"You…those two wizards you encountered before. One of them was a Warden. You know about the cloak's properties. Blood won't stain it. It just evaporates."

"It—this is—is from—"

"Don't bother. I know you're going to lie badly about it happening when Ilyvich and you tussled. He didn't do this to you, Varya. I did."

Hunching beneath my cloak, she pulled it around her and wouldn’t answer.

Gentler this time, I slipped my fingers beneath her chin again.

"What are you doing?" she asked, fright making her voice quaver.

"Thomas will notice," I murmured. "Just don’t move."

I whispered my lips over the rapidly purpling bruise, and she shivered at the touch. Slowly, so slowly, I brushed her skin with my tongue. Salty and sweet at the same time, sweat and that floral scent of hers taken in by my sense of taste. 

Her eyes were tightly shut, but she didn't move away as I savored her, my mouth drawing in the smoothness of her skin, the clean, fresh flavor of her, enhanced by the earthy, slightly musky undertones of perspiration. Giving her what the curse demanded, to heal her. Giving me what I wanted, just a little taste.

I leaned back a bit and saw the movement in her long, slender throat as she swallowed hard. She was breathing hard, with a white-knuckled death grip on the edges of my cloak as she tightened it around her.

"It's gone," I said, and she gave a great shudder, pulling away.

"I got the stupid thing, but I still don't really understand why," Thomas said as he yanked the passenger side door open.

"Hand it here," I said, and he passed the white bag to me, glancing back and forth between me and Varya.

When she started the Navigator back up, I just began giving directions again.

"This is the way back to your apartment," Thomas said after about ten minutes.

"Yeah, Museum field trip's been postponed. Something more important came up."

Her mouth opened as if to protest, but she happened to glance into the rearview mirror and saw my face. She fell silent.

None of which was lost on Thomas.

"Okay then, tomorrow night it is," he said.

"Give us an hour," I told him. "I don't want to wait until tomorrow night. Blood is the most fragile of thaumaturgical components, it could be completely degraded waiting that long."

"If it's that unstable, we shouldn't make the side trip," he said cautiously.

"I know. I'm doing it anyway."

"One hour, then."

  


 


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation that is perfect compromise.
> 
> It leaves no one happy.

# Chapter Twenty-Four

" _Flickum Bicus."_

As soon as the flames lit, she rounded on me.

"This changes nothing."

"This changes everything," I replied.

"No." She hurled off my cloak and started tearing through her bags. "Now more than ever I must keep my distance. As should you. Before, the danger was a possibility. Now it is a definite." 

"Give me a minute," I said, going downstairs, putting the white trash bag in the metal circle inset into the lab floor. I closed it with an effort of will and returned to her. That was why I took the detour all the way back to my apartment, instead of just hashing this out on a backstreet somewhere. That bag was the equivalent dynamite with a pack of T.S.A. dogs coming after it. 

"Why won't you trust me?" I finally asked it.

"I've trusted others, and been wrong. Those mistakes cost them their lives and their souls. I would take one and Ilyvich would snatch the other. I cannot afford those kinds of mistakes anymore." Pulling out another thin cashmere turtleneck, she hauled it on over her head. Some of her hair got pulled out of the chignon. "Not with you. Especially not with you."

"You stopped hunting Ilyvich for that man, your husband. Would you—"

"Harry, I would—I would give up everything that I am and everything I must do to keep you safe," her voice broke, she compressed her lips briefly and continued. "To protect you, I would leave Dmitri to prey on humanity forever. And to protect you, I _must not_ do any of those things!"

"Then let me help you another way," I said raggedly. "Let me save you."

"From what?"

"From oblivion. Varya Nadeanenko is worth saving. _You_ are worth saving."

She paused, then reached up and yanked several bobby pins out of her hair, shaking it out and twisting it back up. 

"I don't have a soul, Harry. Varya Nadeanenko is merely a temporary construct. A long lasting one, to be sure, but still a lie. All of this," she jerked a hand down her body. "Is a lie. A falsehood. It's not real. An amalgam of hagioplasm and divine will."

"No. You are you, and you are real. That is worth keeping around."

"So too I believed, once," she said. "More of my hubris."

"Hubris? I don’t understand."

"They gave me a choice," she said quietly, unsteadily, around the bobby pins in her mouth.

"Who did? What choice?"

"After I betrayed Ilya—Father Gavril," Her voice firmed as she spoke, as she regained control. Pulling the fasteners out from between her lips, she expertly jammed them into the thick twist of her hair. "After Czernobog had his fill of me, I was retrieved. There was a sort of trial. My sins explained to me. My punishment. I was given a choice. I would be cast out, made into the Derelict, spurned by infernal and divine alike. Or, I could truly abandon Ilya, and everything we had meant to each other, leave him to his fate, by giving up Varya Nadeanenko then and there and returning to the Host."

"You chose to be cursed. To keep who you were alive. For him."

"For much the same reason you told me about Morgan. I was the only one who knew the tale. I couldn't let Ilya's memory be lost, what he was corrupted by the perception of a weak priest giving into the temptation of a demon. And more. He loved Varya Nadeanenko. He lost everything for Varya Nadeanenko. How could I destroy all of that to save myself pain?"

"I can't imagine…"

"You would do the same thing, Harry. You would accept a curse of this magnitude in order to preserve someone you love."

"But—" Would I? I wasn't so sure.

"It was the easiest decision I have ever made. But I am weary, Harry," Her arms dropped, hair finished. "So very weary. I must free him, but after that…even if I remained I would still be cursed. I have made many enemies who would use my weakness against me. Alone until the end of days, without love, without touch? I am to be an automaton to fight evil. I will fulfill that purpose as one of the Host, and without the memory of what has been and what might have been."

"No, it doesn't have to be that way."

She shrugged. "I am weak. I do not want to live alone, I do not want to fear love. I want it to be over."

I couldn’t do it. I couldn't let it go. I couldn't let her go. Not without a fight. Not with what I had learned in the Wal-Mart parking lot.

"You are _not_ weak. And you don't have to be alone," I told her. "Neither do I. We would be good for each other, Varya."

Deep breath. Cards on the table time.

"My biggest fear, the one that wakes me up in the dead of night, that fills me every morning of every day is 'who's next?' Who among those I care about will be used against me? I understand your fear because I have it too. But I'm willing to take that risk."

She turned her back on me, going through her bags once more until she pulled out a jacket very similar to the one she had put into the trash bag, covered with Dmitri's blood. 

"Think about it, please. Who best to be with me, to survive everything those bastards can throw at me? And who better to fight off what comes after you? Please, Varya, look at it that way."

No answer, but I knew she was listening to me as she went still, jacket only half on. Desperately I continued, trying to make her see.

"I wish I had the words to make you understand…you're beautiful, gorgeous, and you set my blood on fire, but you know all that already. There's more. You _get_ it. You get why I try to protect my friends from themselves and their own ignorance. I'm going to live for a long time if I don't get my damn fool head ripped off, and I have never relished the fact that any woman I loved would die centuries before I would. I'm an orphan, and in a manner of speaking, so are you. You get the loneliness of being an outsider your whole life. But most of all…you get the darkness inside me. And you're not afraid of it. You understand it, truly understand it, and yet you do not fear." 

The reasons all came tumbling out. The reasons why I wanted her so badly, wanted to be with her. They were a jumbled mass, spilling all over her in a wash of my pain. Every admission was dear to me, ripped from where I'd stuffed them away, hidden them with the strength of my denial. 

Those strong shoulders, broad for a woman, began to shake. 

"Let me be the reason you want to stay," I begged her. "Don't let them…take you away. Not like that. Please."

"Your life will continue after I am gone," she said, finally turning to face me, moving within arm's reach of me. "I cannot make you happy. Other love will come to you. Other love that will not have the risks I represent."

"There has been no evidence to support that claim," I snorted. "Besides, I don't want other love. I want _you._ Varya, why bother denying it now? It's been made pretty clear. I have to say it. I—"

She pressed a slender, graceful finger against my mouth. A silken kiss of warmth on my lips. 

"Do not," she whispered with that melancholic smile. "Do not say it. Words have power, you of all people know that. Let it remain unspoken."

The finger fell away.

"Are the words really that important?" I asked, already knowing the answer. The strength of how much I needed to say them was proof enough. "It's already happened. Whether we say it or not won't make a difference."

As was her way, she just looked at me, and I engulfed her in an embrace that trembled, resting my head on her shoulder. My arms were not gentle, they were tight, crushing her to me, enveloping her. They reached all the way around her, one around her shoulders, one around her waist, and I clung to her as the storm threatened to rip me away.

Reaching up, she cradled my head in her arms. I wanted to stay that way forever. Sheltered, and sheltering. 

It was the blanket keeping away the monster under the bed. It was seeing Susan hunting me in the dark with the scent of my blood driving her. It was the moment of happiness so profound it let me gather a pocketful of sunshine, and it was the despair of seeing my foster father die screaming in the fire of my will.

When we finally pulled away, her shoulder was wet. Dark, glistening streaks against the lambskin. She went into the bathroom. I heard water running. She was splashing her face. 

I sat on a couch, my legs unable to support my weight, and buried my face in my hands. The rough, worn nap of the leather glove against my cheek, a bitter reminder of what being Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden meant. Mouse came over and leaned his head against my knee.

I hated my life, everything about my life, with a sudden, blinding passion. Why had I been given the "gift" of magic? Why me? Why did everything I touch have to be twisted somehow, a little piece or all of it destroyed just because I paid it some attention? All I had done, all I had _ever_ done, was my best. Everything I possibly could. I'd given the women I love, my friends, my hand, my conscience, and my future. It was never enough. Not ever. 

Archangels, Fallen Angels, Summer Court, Winter Court, Black Council, White Council.

Karma. God. The Powers that Be.

Love.

Fuck them. Fuck all of them.

Mouse gave a little whine and I put my arms around him, rubbing my cheek against his thick fur. He held stock still, just letting his size and his simple affection be the rock I needed at that moment. 

It was surprisingly effective.

  


 


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get to the museum, where Harry reveals his dirty little trick, and the price he had to pay to get it. 
> 
> Much to Thomas' amusement.

# Chapter Twenty-Five

The Ukrainian National Museum wasn't that impressive to look at, particularly not after the Dreihaus. It was a rectangular, red brick structure, two stories. The main doors were offset to the left side of the building. 

She killed the ignition and we sat in the dark, the engine pinging in the cool autumn air. She'd parked about half a block down, and we sat just looking at it. On the other side of the street from it was evidence of urban renewal, a chain link fence covered by one of those protective construction banner, emblazoned with the commercial developer's name and plans for the site.

"Right," I muttered, extending out my senses. It didn't take long before I bumped into the first ward.

"Magical protections?"

"Yeah, but nothing too extreme," I told her. "They're going for low key and unnoticed instead of high power and Vegas showgirls."

"Makes sense. Someone comes by and scopes out big huge magical defenses, they're going to want to know why," Thomas observed.

"Nothing I can't handle," I said, getting out of the car. Thomas did the same at the same time and there was a bit of a silly race to get to Varya's door first. 

"Ha!" Thomas exclaimed, reaching it first. 

"Supernaturally endowed freak," I muttered as he pulled the door open and gave her a courtly bow.

"Bitter slow beanpole."

"Children," Varya said imperiously, which made Thomas chortle.

She and I were in pretend-mode now. Pretend it had never happened. Pretend nothing was going on. 

It was the only way either of us were going to get through the night.

True to his word, Thomas had showed back up exactly one hour after he had left. He hadn't asked any questions, not even any inquiring glances. I was fiercely grateful. She and I hadn't said a word to each other until his arrival. When Mouse let us know he was there, I just grabbed a backpack, dispelled the circle, stuffed the trash bag into it, and we left. I was wearing the backpack now, under my duster.

Waiting for him gave me a chance to take a better look around. I thought I could just make something out at the end of the street, beyond the Museum. But it wasn't clear enough. My senses revealed nothing.

"Thomas, do you see anything down there?"

He squinted down the street.

"Yeah," he said. "Three familiar SUVs. Couple of guys standing around. They see us, but they're not doing anything yet."

"How many?"

"Out of the cars? Looks like ten or so. They're carrying big time bullet spitters."

"I guess it's time for my surprise."

Reaching into a pocket of my duster, I pulled out the Wal-Mart bag and a piece of chalk. Digging out the receipt, I drew a quick circle on the pavement, then put the receipt into it. Touching the circle, I closed it with a thread of my will. Not a protective circle, this was more of a specific-point broadcast.

"Take this as a token of my unbroken oath, given unto thee, a pact to be fulfilled before the next gibbous moon. As we decreed, boon for boon."

Staring at the paper, I said, " _Flickum Bicus_." 

A corner of the receipt caught on fire. Slowly the entire thing was engulfed and turned to ash. I released the circle.

"Now what?" Thomas asked.

"Now we wait."

Minutes ticked by. Thomas peered down the road again. 

"There's something else down there. More SUVs? They're moving weird."

Varya looked as well, then to me, eyebrows crawling up to her hairline.

"Oh, Harry, what have you done to those poor men," she said, but her voice was thick with suppressed humor, not rebuke. Like she found the situation hilarious, but felt bad about it. Like when you laugh at an off-color joke or a friend slipping on ice.

"I've been a naughty little schoolboy," I said smugly.

"What in the—" Thomas began.

Then we heard it.

Fizzle.

Kerblam.

"Don't worry," I told her. "It's not random this time. No anti-matter, no black holes, no singing amphibians."

"Is that possible?"

I grinned. It was not a nice grin. "It is for the guy who invented them."

" _Puck?_ " Thomas demanded. "You made a deal with _Puck?_ "

Fizzle.

Kerblam.

"Uh, you said his name twice just now. I wouldn't say it again. Third time really is the charm, you know. Like, literally."

"I can't see anything down there anymore, it's all misty," he complained.

"Yup."

"Mind fog," he said, with a fierce grin of his own. 

"The guys in the SUVs won't be too affected by it, but they can't get out of the car, either. They shoot through the windows to get rid of the things, and they open themselves up to the fog."

Fizzle.

Kerblam.

"Apparently the Fae Trickster was none too pleased with how his last client treated him. He was delighted with my suggestion. And it won't hurt them, just make them forget, well, everything for a little while. And a few more of the fizzles are just going to hover around, so even if there are a few who escape the mind fog, they won't be going anywhere for a while. The paralytic aura will stop them cold."

"What's the payment?" Thomas asked, then glanced at the bag. "Oh, no, don't tell me."

"Yeah. All I have to do is play a game with him. I had to buy it, though." I fished the flat green plastic box decorated with a brightly colored insert out of the bag. 

"Harry, that requires a gaming console to play. You have a bout of flatulence and those things short out for miles."

"He said he would take care of that," I shrugged.

"I have to be there."

"Why? Isn't it some kind of war game? Strategy? It's in the name; _Dance, Dance Revolution_."

"Oh, Harry…" Thomas just started laughing. He couldn't stop. He leaned against the Navigator, arms crossed over his stomach. "Oh, _Harry_ …"

Varya, with a sympathetic smile, plucked the box out of my hand and turned it over, showing me the description.

My heart plummeted as I read it.

"Hell's bells," I said. I think that's what I said. It came out kind of strangled. Unless it was ballroom, and that had to be under very specific circumstances, I didn't dance. Abject humiliation has never been my thing. Call it a quirk.

"I have to be there!" he howled. 

"I'll take care of the ward on the door," I growled, stalking forward, shoving the box back into my pocket.

Freaking _fae_. The cost wasn't the game, or the matching of wits, it was what remained of my dignity.

"I will disarm the necessary parts of the security system when you have finished," Varya said, all levity gone as we oriented on the mission. Even Thomas sobered as he caught up to us. "It might be set to inform the security company if the power is disrupted."

"In other words, no kablooey for you," Thomas said, with another bout of snickering.

We made our way into some trees clumped next to the building, hiding in the shadows. I planted my staff and closed my eyes, extending my senses once more. There it was, the first ward. There were more behind it, but I couldn’t get to them without taking care of the first layer.

I gathered my will, the runes on my staff glowed. " _Solvos_."

The ward evaporated. That was the problem with passive wards like that. They were hard to spot but fragile for a wizard who knew what they were doing. Of course, wizards weren't exactly commonplace, so they were usually a pretty safe bet. The dent in Bilbo's door, only noticed for what it was if you were already in the know.

My apartment, on the other hand, was the Eye of Sauron. A lighthouse with neon signs that blinked in huge font WIZARD LIVES HERE. It was worth it. I was in the book, after all, not like it was hard to find me. 

"First ward's down."

"The box for the alarms is around back. Stay here, I will return shortly."

"Var—" she'd sprinted into the shadows and was lost to my sight before I could finish saying her name.

"Hey, Harry."

"Hey, Thomas."

"Let me be serious for a minute. What is with you two?"

"Nothing." It came out a lot more rancorous than I had intended.

He was quiet for a moment.

"I like her, too."

"I know. You've made that abundantly clear."

"I don't mean like that. Well, not only like that. I just like her. She's fun to be around. You're fun when she's around. Do you have any idea how long it's been since I've heard you laugh the way you were when we were on our way to Mac's?"

Blink. I hadn't even thought about it.

"It feels…"

"Natural."

"Yeah."

"It's just the way she is. She's adaptive. And she's finally able to be herself."

"You did that. You gave her that."

"It's all I can give her."

"No, Harry. You can give her more. And she can do the same for you."

"Don't you think I want to? She won't let me. She's too afraid for me, and I can't blame her. What could happen to me, aside from the obvious. Can you imagine if a demon got hold of me, with my powers of destruction? Hell's bells, Thomas, I destroyed the electrical system of the Dreihaus earlier tonight and I wasn’t even trying. It was an accident. Imagine if a demon got what I could do."

"Nuh-uh," he grunted. "Not buying it. You held off a Fallen for years, got her shadow to switch sides, and then gave up the coin. You are not going to get controlled by a demon."

"Rotten apples and oranges."

"How?"

"A Fallen has to be invited in, just like any other angel. Demons don't. Thomas, they get in through unrepented sin. If she lets me in, becomes part of my life, you know what I would be capable of, what lengths I would go through to protect her. You saw what I did to the Red Court. It wasn't even that I couldn't control it. I didn't want to control it, because of Susan."

"No mortals were hurt in that," he protested.

"We learned that after the fact. We both know that when I called down the fire, I didn't give a damn if there were innocents still in there. It's only by sheer luck I didn't break the First Law all over again. By killing mortals with magic. Of course I felt bad about it. After. Way after. But there was a very clear and distinct window…if a demon had been hunting me, it would have gotten inside."

"You would fight it off. You would. You're too much of a stubborn ass to let a demon win against you."

"Are you willing to let me take that chance?" I asked quietly. "Knowing what I know about you? About Justine?"

"Damn it, when is it going to get easy for us? Or at least easier," he snarled. "One of us needs to make good in the love department. It's not going to be me. You're our last hope, Harry Wan Kenobi."

"I might be, but it won't be with Varya."

"And it's killing you."

"And it's killing me. But I am going to do everything I can to make sure she sees Chicago as a safe haven. Somewhere she can come back to and be among friends. What you guys make it for me."

"I figured that's what was going on. I've been trying to help."

"You have been," I said feelingly. "More than you know."

He hissed a warning and I fell silent. His nightvision was far and away superior to mine, and hopefully he saw her before she got close enough to hear what we were saying.

"It is disarmed," she said, rejoining us.

"Shall we?" I asked, and we crept forward to the front doors.

"Why isn't there more resistance?" Thomas asked as I studied the second set of wards beyond the double doors, topped by knotwork and symbols of the instruments and tools of Ukraine. "They figured it out, right? Where is everyone? The three SUVs can't be the only security."

"We don’t know who's in the SUVs," I pointed out. "And I don't know about anything else they might be throwing at us, but hopefully it won't matter in a few minutes. _Solvos_."

Varya took some slender tools out of a pouch and unlocked the doors.

Thomas shoved past me to open it first.

"No respect," I whined, adjusting an imaginary necktie. "No respect at all."

We moved in, Varya pulling a small penlight from a pouch and clicking it on. I pulled out the pentacle amulet and held it up by its chain. It began glowing with a clear blue-white light. My magic flashlight. Hers flickered and went out. After staring at it a bit, she just shrugged and stuck it back into the pouch. 

"That's lovely," she said, staring at it in wonder. The silver pentacle was a bit misshapen, battered, and melted here and there. Kind of like me. 

"It was my mother's," I told her. 

"I have one, too," Thomas said, fishing his out from the collar of his shirt and showing her. His, unlike mine, was pristine. When his got damaged he got it repaired. I wouldn't trust anyone else to do it, and I didn't trust my silversmith skills to get the job done right.

"They're beautiful."

"Thank you," we both murmured.

"You said precious metals and gems, yes?" she asked.

"I did."

"There's a display of church relics and other oddments from the time and place I lived in upstairs," she said, heading for the stairs. "They should fit the requirements, yes?"

"Yes. And I can see how Dimmy would like the irony."

"I'm not sure what the display actually has. I…did not visit that. But yes, Dmitri would definitely find it amusing to use them."

We fell in behind her. Shortly we were in a clean white room with glass topped display cases and glass fronted cabinets on the wall. 

"It's here," I said. "It's inactive, so I couldn't sense it until we got close enough, but this is it."

Now I took the lead, holding my pentacle up and searching the cases. I stopped in front of one. In the floor case there were hand carved rosaries of onyx, lapis lazuli, and rose quartz, chased with gold and silver. A solid silver chalice, with the scenes of the Resurrection etched into it sat next to them. Several other altar pieces, in gold and silver, rested there as well. A pectoral cross, set with pearls. Somehow they'd managed to be preserved despite the Purge when the Communist regime had taken over.

"Harry."

"Just a second, Thomas." I stretched my awareness down and touched the objects with it. Sure enough, they were the ritual objects. I got absolutely no sense of holiness from them, though, which was odd for old church relics. Usually they had something of the faith around them. Only the pectoral cross had a whisper of the power.

Of course. They'd been brand spanking new when the priest using them had gotten possessed. It had defiled them, robbing them of any consecration they might have built up.

"Harry," Thomas said again, more insistent. "Look at the wall."

I looked up.

My senses were still wide open, and as they connected to the object on the wall it felt like someone had clocked me. A large, angry someone. Whatever it was, it was brimming with stored magical power. Good thing I hadn't opened my third eye and looked at it with the Sight. That would have knocked me silly.

I shook my head, shutting down my other senses and clearing the pain stars out of my eyes. As I did so, I caught sight of Varya, who was staring past me, face stricken, hand at her throat.

A few alarms starting to go off, I slowly turned and looked again.

It was a large, black lacquer oval, probably three feet tall, a little under two feet wide.

On it, in silver and gold, platinum and ivory, was Varya.

She had her arms upstretched, and she was laughing. Intricately detailed snowflakes filled the air around her. The simple peasant dress was flared as she danced on the silver snow. A small chapel appeared in the background, magnificent in gold. Her hair was loose and floated around her, you couldn't tell where her hair left off and the snow began. The sheer elation of her figure, welcoming the snow to her, was undeniable.

Whatever artist had rendered this had perfectly captured wonder and joy, in her smiling mouth, in her brilliant eyes. I had to catch my breath.

" _Snegurochka_ – circa twelve fifty-five, artist unknown. One of the largest black lacquer pieces known, painted in the Petrykivka style. The picture is based on a tale told by a priest of the village Rechka to one of his parishioners, in which he claimed to have seen Snegurochka, or the snow maiden, dancing in the snow outside his chapel one night. The piece is unusual in that the artist coated the wooden base with a solid layer of gold before covering it with the traditional lacquer, and the use of ivory in the piece. The rendering is silver, gold, and platinum paint with ivory inlay for the skin tones." Thomas read the placard aloud.

"That's you," I said quietly.

"It was." Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "It's been a thousand years. It should not affect me so."

"What happened?"

She shrugged. "It was the first time I had seen snow. I was careless. Father Gavril saw me. He'd thought it a dream. I did not know the tale spread beyond the village."

"It's beautiful," I whispered, staring up at it again.

"Destroy it," she said harshly. 

"I…don't think I can," I said.

"Why?" the cry was filled with despair.

"Varya, please," Thomas said. "Even if he could, I wouldn't let him."

"I do not understand," she said, hugging herself.

"Because it's you," he replied simply.

"It is _not_ me. It is a foolish and weak girl, putting nonsense ahead of her duties. A selfish child." 

"That's not what I see," Thomas told her.

"It wasn't what Father Gavril saw, either. You are all deceived."

"Varya…" 

"Fine. Then I will destroy it myself." Her hand darted to her belt and the Cobra flickered with a metallic hiss. Thomas lunged to grab her but I just shook out my shield bracelet and got in between her and the glass case on the wall. I poured will into the bracelet, angling up the transparent blue hemisphere to intercept her strike.

Nearly not enough will. The Cobra slammed down on the shield with enough force that I grunted and slid back a few inches, my back thumping into the display case. I felt a hot flash against my wrist as one of the shields on the bracelet flared with light. There was an awesome amount of strength inside her. I had faced ogres in a full rage that hadn't hit that hard.

"Varya, Varya, stop, please stop," Thomas was crooning, holding her wrists. He glanced over at me and I nodded that I was fine. "It's okay, it's okay. Don't do this."

I realized he was talking instead of just pinning her because he wasn't sure if he'd be able to hang on if she decided she didn't like that.

Her face dropped, then her arms. Thomas let go and backed away a step, but stayed close enough to grab her if she went for the lacquer again. I released the shield.

"Harry, did I hurt you?" She asked, staring at the floor, the Cobra twisted awkwardly behind her back.

"No, I'm fine. Honestly, Varya. I'm fine."

"Do not do that again."

"I can't make that promise."

"It is the main piece of the anchor, yes?" she asked brusquely.

I nodded.

"Then I apologize. You were right to stop me. I cannot destroy it yet. But I will. Sentimentality notwithstanding."

"I understand."

"You do, don't you?" She asked, a touch of bewilderment in her voice as she finally turned her face up to mine. "You truly—"

She broke off in such obvious dread I don't know why I asked.

"What is it?"

"You must go." Reaching out, she grabbed my and Thomas' wrists and began dragging us towards the stairs. It didn't really seem to matter to her that we were resisting. "Now. Out the back. Go and do not return until I call for you, or it has been still for some time."

"What is it? What's wrong?" Thomas demanded, getting his kukri out and trying to free his wrist.

I knew the words before she spoke them.

"He's here."

  


 


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events unfold showing why Harry Dresden is one of the most feared wizards on the planet.
> 
> And not just because of his fearsome magical powers.
> 
> NOTE: THERE ARE SCENES OF WHICH COULD BE CONSIDERED GRAPHICALLY VIOLENT AND GORY TO SOME READERS. I can't seem to put the AO3 warnings on individual chapters.

# Chapter Twenty-Six

"This wasn't the plan," Thomas said jerkily as she pulled us down the stairs. I almost lost my footing and took us all down together. 

"Varya, stop, we can do this."

"Of course we can. I will draw him away, or kill him. You wait outside until it's clear, then complete the ritual."

"You let us come—"

"Because you need to disrupt the ritual, Harry. And Thomas would not let you come alone. I did not bring you to fight Dmitri."

I glanced at Thomas. She would have to let one of us go to get the back door open, we would use that as opportunity to try and talk some sense into her. 

At the same time, I couldn't help but think we must have looked like two overgrown children being dragged out of the toy store by an embarrassed mother.

Reaching the back door, she raised a foot and kicked it open. The locks exploded and an alarm started wailing. The best laid plans of mice and men…

"I thought you said you disabled it!" I shouted over the din. 

"I did, for the front door!" 

She'd foreseen this possibility, left the alarm up to summon mortal authorities, giving the battle a definitive time limit. Which meant she'd also planned to use this as our forced point of exit if necessary.

I'd forgotten I was dealing with a thousand years of experience.

She tossed us out behind the museum like we were ragdolls, slamming the steel doors shut behind us.

We launched ourselves towards them, but she had barricaded it already.

"She never had any intention of letting us face him," Thomas snarled, crashing a fist into the door. It dented, but did not give.

"Stand back," I warned him, lifting my staff.

"Harry!"

I barely got my shield up as something slammed into me. It was a man. Or at least physically a man. He wore light Kevlar armor, and had a huge double-bitted axe strapped to his back. And he was built like a linebacker with a tangled beard that tumbled down his face, which was stretched in an expression I knew all too well.

"Thomas! They're lycanthropes!"

"Werewolves?" he demanded, but he got the point that they were not mortals, ducked, and slashed at one of the three who were circling him. The man howled as the blade sliced through the bullet resistant armor, but then he grinned. The others answered it. Blood had been spilled. It would fuel them.

Lycanthropes, not werewolves, instead able to harness a spirit of rage rather than literally changing into a beast, giving them speed, strength, sharpened senses, and the ability to ignore crippling pain. I'd faced their kind before, but those yahoos were infants compared to these guys. These were the guys who invented the concept. 

Norse Berserkergang. Berserkers.

"No! They're—you! On PCP!"

"Gotcha," he said, dancing away from a grab that would have caught him up in a brutal bearhug if it had landed.

"I hate to do this, wizard," said the one who had bounced off my shield. He was circling me, along with three more of his best buddies. I had my shield up and my staff aglow, waiting. Losing precious time. "Truly. I know you saved Mistress Gard. But orders are orders."

"And what are your orders?"

"To stop you and the vampire, without killing you. Or at least delay you."

"I can't make the same attempt with you guys."

"Of course not! We all wake up when the cock crows anyway, wizard. Have at!"

Despite the exigency of the situation, I felt a feral grin of my own pulling at my lips as I danced away from a haymaker that would have taken my head off, and bashed the offending fist with my staff.

The guy had just told me I could go all out against them because they were immortal. They die here, they wake up tomorrow. They were from Valhalla.

"Thanks for the information. You catch that Thomas?"

He performed a superhuman leap over the head of a charging enemy then whirled, his bent bloody blade whistling as it slid through the neck of the one he had just dodged. Spine and most of the neck severed, the body slumped, the head dangling from a flap of skin down its chest.

"I caught it! Go! Get inside! I can handle these guys!"

"Sorry about this, Erik the Awful, the brutal and tenacious. Maybe I'll buy you a beer when this is all over."

"I'd like that, perhaps after you get out of the hospital," he said.

"Perhaps. _Forzare!"_

A lance of pure force rushed out of my staff, colliding with him and sending him flying up the street. I'm not sure how far he would have gone because he was stopped by the pole of a streetlight. They both went over. He didn't get back up.

"It's like a video game!" Thomas cried, laughing. "Guilt free slaughter!"

"If you say so!" 

"Not _Dance, Dance Revolution_ , though!" he added.

"You are such a turd! _Vento servitas!_ " Air slammed down on two more, I heard bones crunch.

So nice to know exactly what I was fighting and how to fight them. It wasn't something that usually happened, despite all my research.

"I'm going!"

"So go, already!"

Putting my shield up at my back, I faced the doors, switching my staff to my left.

Instead of my staff, I raised my hand, thrusting it before me in a grabbing motion.

_"Forzare!_ " My staff flashed with silvery light, and a ghostly hand, taller than I was, appeared, plunging fingers into the steel of the doors like they were putty. My shield shuddered, getting hammered by blows. Gritting my teeth, I jerked my hand back and whipped it around.

The doors didn't even have time to shriek as metal shredded and they came flying out of their casing, crashing into the two pounding on my shield with their axes. It walloped them but good. Pinning them to the ground with the doors, I closed my hand, and the doors crushed around them.

I didn't stop crushing until my fist closed completely.

Then I staggered forward, sharp pain blossoming across my shoulders, and it felt like I had been shoved by the giant hand I I'd been controlling. In order to use the doors as a weapon I had dropped my shield, and as I stumbled to keep my feet I realized I had been shot by a fully automatic weapon. Machine pistols, by the sound.

My bracelet went back up in a flash, my duster having protected me from the bullets, both from being pierced by them and from a good chunk of their kinetic force. It was still a lash of agony. My back was an orgy of pain. The glass neck of the beer bottle in the backpack had shattered with the first volley, shards driving through my skin, and the next several bursts had pounded them in further. 

More bullets pinged off my shield, but this was my new and improved spiffy shield, and I knew I could maintain it against the couple of weapons they had brought to bear. 

So of course, as soon as I thought it, about a dozen more guys showed up. These had AK-47s. They could send hundreds of miniature battering rams downrange per minute. Neither my shield nor my duster could stand up to that kind of assault.

"Hey!" I shouted at the berserkergang still surrounding us. "What happened to not killing us?"

"They are not of us, wizard," one shouted back. "They use our uniforms, but they are other!"

"Different orders?"

"So the evidence would show!" He came at me from an angle, trying to get round my shield, which was between me and the guys with guns. Instead of an axe, he had a huge brassbound club, and tried to put me to sleep with it. "Apologies again, wizard, but I am not bound to keep you alive, just not kill you or let you enter the building!"

He came at me, and I plunged my hand into my pocket. The nose of the .44 snuggled up to his forehead and I pulled the trigger. He went over backwards, limp, lips still stretched in that bestial grin.

Taking a fraction of a second, I looked around for Thomas, but he was a black and white blur in and out of the bad guys. 

I heard shouting from inside the building in what I assumed was Ukrainian. Thunder rolled out from the doors behind me, followed by a cloud of dust. Varya. And Ilyvich. 

The instant I turned to go through the doors, those rifles would make short work of me, chewing through my shield before I could take cover. I didn't know what the berserkergang meant by "other", I just had to hope that meant not mortal. If they were…

They signed up for this job. They knew the risks.

"I don't have time for this shit," I announced, briskly exchanging my revolver for my blasting rod. _"Fuego!"_

I turned and dashed inside the building while they were still screaming.

The hall to the stairs was murkily lit with the fires I had started outside, which was good, I had my hands full with my instruments of an archdemon's destruction. No extra hand for the magic flashlight.

I turned the corner around the stairs, following the direction of the shouting I'd heard, only to have a body come flying into mine and send me tumbling down the hall in the opposite direction.

A man's voice came from the direction I had been heading, snarling in Ukrainian. It was Ilyvich, one hand clapped to his face, blood gouting from between his fingers. A wicked gash in the side of his neck was also bleeding copiously, although not spurting like an artery had been hit. He was wearing a black military style knit sweater, the kind with the patches on the elbows and shoulders, black cargo pants, and the old style black leather combat boots. Or he mostly was. His clothing was hanging off him in strips. In one hand he gripped a black longsword. It seemed to writhe in his grip and make ugly things slither through my head as I looked at it. He leaned to one side, and I saw a splintery bit of bone poking out from his thigh. He was on his feet by sheer willpower alone.

"Take her, wizard," he spat. "Take her and heal her. Then bring her back to me. She fell keeping me from you. Care for her and then bring her. You bring her. The game must continue, and now you are part of it. I will have you both. I will destroy you for undoing what I have wrought. She cannot protect you forever."

A billow of smoke and the smell of sulfur, and he was gone.

Finally I was able to look down at what had hit me. It was indeed Varya. Some of her hair had been ripped out, leaving a raw patch on her scalp. Welts and bruises covered her face, disfiguring it in grisly swellings of red and purple. Her sweater had been all but ripped off of her, and her chest gaped with a wound slicing down between her breasts. I could see ribs, breastbone. Several barely bleeding two-inch wide incisions were scattered across her torso. One of her arms and one of her legs were bent in places that had no joints. She was unconscious, but breathing.

She was unconscious.

"Thomas!" I bellowed. _"Thomas!"_

"Busy!"

"Come get her! Now!"

He dashed in, looking around wildly.

"Oh shit," he said, falling to his knees next to her. "Oh shit oh shit oh shit. He can kill her, right?"

"No," I said. "He can't."

I shrugged out of my duster, ignoring the way it made my shoulders flare, went to wrap her in it, stopped.

"Use this," I said to him. "Get her out of here."

"What are you doing? Ilyvich is gone! Nothing else here can hurt her!" He looked at my face. Realized why I had handed him my coat instead of doing it myself. "Empty night…Harry, you need that! You're not thinking straight!"

"Just take her."

Further protest died as I climbed to my feet, and he enfolded her gingerly in my duster, gathering her to him.

As far as I was concerned, I was seeing things with absolute, perfect clarity.

For example, I remembered with exquisite lucidity when she told me that if she was unconscious, she was close to death. When she'd told me she could, in fact, die. In such an offhanded way. Like she'd been telling me she didn't want that second cup of coffee.

I faced the front doors, knowing the place was surrounded by dozens of security forces at this point, and all I had was my shield bracelet to protect me from the assault rifles and whatever other arsenal they had. The berserkergang had either retreated to clear the field of fire or Thomas had taken care of them all. 

Varya was dying. I had to get her out.

But I didn't go just yet. 

Instead, I pulled.

I pulled energy out of the air, out of the stone, out of the brick and the mortar. Out of the ground. Out of the linoleum we were standing on. Out of the ancient examples of Ukrainian culture. Out of every unliving thing around me. 

Frost began coating everything my will touched as I sucked the heat out of it and drew it into myself. Soon we were standing in a sparkling silver hall. Our breath steamed. 

My hair nearly stood on end, my skin bursting. I pulled until my vision started to go red. Then I readied my staff and my blasting rod.

I put up my shield almost as an afterthought.

" _Fuego! Pyrofuego!_ "

A solid bar of blue white fire, twenty feet wide and ten feet tall erupted from where I was standing and hit the front of the building, then kept going through to whatever was waiting on the other side.

The entire front of the building blew out. The offset corner we were standing it evaporated. What remained of the building shook with tremors, listing out over us. 

I led Thomas out into a stygian nightmare. The dead and dying lay everywhere, half buried by rubble, every square inch of visible flesh burnt black. What flesh had managed to stubbornly cling to bone, instead of being cremated. The clump of trees we had used for a hiding spot was gone. 

In the debris, bricks were burning.

"Harry," Thomas said. I looked back at him, expecting some sort of admonishment. Instead I saw understanding, and approval. 

"What is it?"

"Her hand, look at her hand."

I glanced down at her hand, it looked like her fingers had been pounded on by sledgehammers. But through the blood and the mangled flesh, I saw it.

Dark brown hairs.

"You said you weren't sure about the blood," Thomas gasped. "She got insurance."

"What's wrong with you?" I snapped.

"Nothing. Take it. Destroy the focus. Do it now."

I stuck my staff and blasting rod under one arm and used both hands to gently, gently pry the hair out of her fingers. It still had scalp attached. Ilyvich had probably ripped hers out in retaliation.

"Get her into the car. Get it started. The police will be here soon."

Then I walked into the building, hair clenched in one fist.

Vaguely I wondered when emotions would come back and what it would be like when they did.

The building groaned like a dying beast around me, but I marched up the stairs and to the beautiful lacquered piece, staring up at it for a moment. Varya in the snow.

The glass of all the display cases had been shattered, so I set the hair down inside the one with the altar pieces and rosaries. Then hauled off the backpack and dropped the whole thing on top of the hair. 

" _Abstergeo,"_ I chanted. " _Abstergeo, ejicio abstergeo. Abstergeo, ejicio abstergeo…_ "

It took about five minutes, the ritual fighting me. I set my staff between my feet and extended my right palm towards the relics, my voice rising, until it roared around me, resounding and reverberating, peals of my will refusing defeat. 

Something gave.

I directed a thin needle of my will at the tuft of a demon's hair buried beneath the backpack, zeroing in on the faint foulness of it.

_"Fuego._ "

The entire display case burst into flames. The hair went up fast, the nylon of the backpack following nearly as fast, and I could feel the structure of the positive energy focus breaking down, collapsing in on itself, like the building I was standing in.

Then I reached up, grabbed the lacquer, and strode out.

Seconds after I had reached the street there was an ominous rumble and the Museum disintegrated. I supposed I was lucky it had waited until I'd gotten out.

I glanced heavenward. "Thanks," I said. "You bastard."

  


 


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry figures out what he wants, and makes a decision.
> 
> Now just to live with it afterwards.
> 
> Keyword "live".
> 
> NOTE: THERE IS SOME SEXUAL CONTENT IN THIS CHAPTER WHICH MAY OR MAY NOT SEEM GRAPHIC TO SOME READERS. I can't seem to put the AO3 warnings on individual chapters.

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

Thomas was slouched double in the passenger seat when I got to the Navigator. Sirens had shrilled to life, heading this way.

"What's the matter?" I asked, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the SUV. "I thought you said you were fine."

"I will be," he said. "I kind of got shot a couple times."

"What?'

"There were a lot of bullets flying around. Even I couldn't dodge all of them."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Harry, get her out of here. I know what I need to do, and I'll call Lara from your place. But you need to get her to safety, now."

I put the SUV in drive and tore out of there.

"Are you okay?" He asked weakly, grunting and sitting up. I couldn't see it before because of the night and his dark clothes, but he left pale pink smears on the tan leather seats. His skin was growing pallid as he recovered. His demon was healing him. He must have been hurt badly for it to have taken this long to heal with how he'd been feeding. He would need to feed again, and soon.

"My shoulders, broken glass. I've had worse," I told him. "Try not to move so much."

"That's not what I'm talking about, and I'm _fine_." His eyes were going silver, but strength was obviously returning.

"I'm trying to drive casual, here," I told him. "Can we save the Oprah until I'm away from the cops?"

He stayed silent for about three-quarters of the ride home.

"She looked bad," he said quietly. "Should we try a hospital? Or Butters?"

Waldo Butters, polka king and medical examiner for the city of Chicago. Also field doctor and sometimes surgeon for a certain injury-prone wizard and friends. He wasn't crazy about moonlighting with me. Working on living people freaked him out.

"Butters, if I have to. But…I think either she'll pull through, or she won't. Medical treatment won't help her." I barked a harsh laugh. Thomas winced. "They won't even be able to put an intravenous line into her."

"You could," he said quietly.

"Don't say that. Don’t ever say that, don't bring it up, don’t talk about it. Consider that another taboo subject between us."

"Okay, okay," he was quiet for a moment, obviously struggling with whether or not to talk about something else I wouldn't like.

"Just spit it out already."

"When you—recover a little, it's going to be bad."

"I know that."

"Go to Michael. Talk to him. Or Karrin. Don’t try to go through this alone."

"Why not? It's how I usually do it."

"Yeah, and it's done just a spiffy job. Look," he pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his focus and his temper. "I'll be blunt, and this is really going to piss you off, but you answer this for me. If there's a demon trying to crawl inside you, right now, this second, you think it could?"

I didn't dignify that with a response.

"You're going to tear yourself apart over what you did back there. I can't help you. I don’t feel that way. They hurt the woman you—they hurt Varya, and you did what you had to. I don't understand the remorse that's coming, but I know it _is_ coming, and I know it's going to hit you like a freight train. So please, don't be your usual loser self and go see—"

He broke off abruptly, stiffening, and when I looked over at him, his eyes were nearly entirely silver, and they were turned to the duster covered bundle in the back seat.

Apparently Varya was going to recover, and was already sending out signals for what she needed. In Thomas' state, he wouldn't last long against her.

"Hurry, Harry. Just hurry," he said in a low voice.

I stomped on the accelerator.

And so I broke every speed limit getting my going insane with lust brother and my soon to be insane with lust client back to my apartment. Although it was a far cry from the Smoky and the Bandit scene Varya had reenacted earlier.

So much fun being me.

I screeched up to my place and jumped out, barely remembering to put it in park first. Thomas clambered over into my seat, hunched over the steering wheel. Every line of his body was guitar string tense. He was controlling himself with everything he had.

Wasting no time I jerked open the back door and pulled her out as cautiously as I could. Her feet had barely cleared the door when he slammed it into reverse and shot back out into the street. Tires screamed as he hurled himself into the night. Away from temptation that would likely kill him. 

The only question was would the divine spark in Varya have killed him, or would I have?

She was not a small girl, but she was lighter than I thought she'd be. Too light. She shouldn't be this light, should she?

I held her to me and carefully made my way down the stairs, somehow managing to get the damn door open without jostling her too much. 

Once inside I went straight to my bedroom, lying her down on my bed and parting the duster.

Even though I had been half-expecting it, it still shocked me down to my shoes.

She was perfect.

Still covered in blood and dirt, but not a wound, not an injury, not an abrasion or scratch. Even her hair had grown back entirely.

Her face, with the eyes closed, was cold and remote like a, dare I say it, Dresden china doll. For the first time I felt her beauty was truly unearthly, of another realm. Unknowable. Untouchable. There was such a stillness to her. It stirred no heat, no yearning, only objective appreciation of its artistry.

I got up, extracting my duster from around her, weariness washing through me at the energy I had used that night. My shoulders were screeching at me from the fire dance of the bullets and the ground in glass. 

Did fire stop the Valhallans from resurrecting? Fire was purifying, immolating a lot of magical bonds. I doubted it. Odin was a crafty old bugger. He would have that angle covered.

What about whatever the 'others' were? Other what? Superhuman characters like the berserkergang? Some sort of human-looking boogedy-boo? Or human beings just doing their job?

Tossing my duster over my shoulder I went into the kitchen and found the biggest pot I had, which wasn't very, and filled it with cold water. Then I went downstairs with it and sat cross legged in the metal circle inlaid in the floor, my duster across my lap. I made sure my coat was drawn inside, nothing crossing it. But I wasn't summoning anything, so I didn't go through the whole sweeping and mopping rigmarole. 

This was just to make sure I didn't blow up my house.

That was when I realized I had left my staff and the lacquer in the Navigator. Hopefully Thomas would be able to take care of both. My staff was irreplaceable. The lacquer…was complicated. 

Fumbling my blasting rod from out of the duster, I set the pot on the stone floor and took a deep breath, focusing. Touching the circle, it closed around me with a snap. Then I pointed the rod at the pot and tried the needle-like thread of will again, aimed at the bottom of the pot.

" _Fuego_." It wasn't even a whisper, more just a movement of my lips.

A thin tendril of flame extended from the blasting rod and splashed lightly against the side of the pot. I wrapped it around the steel, and fought to maintain it.

This was tiring me more than using the big heavy fire spell had.

Screams echoed in my ears, I knew the sound well. The sound of men burning to death. If there were mortals among them, I was pretty sure that Wild Bill, one of the Wardens under my command, would give me a heads up when they came gunning for me.

But it wouldn't be Morgan, because Morgan was dead. Probably spinning in his grave that he wouldn't be able to take a crack at me. He'd finally unbent enough to tell me that he believed I would always do what I thought was right, and that made me a danger that he had every intention of stopping.

He'd been wrong, though. What I'd done tonight had nothing to do with what was right.

I wondered who they'd send. Luccio, the leader of the Wardens, would probably come herself, knowing I wouldn't put up much of a fight against her.

She knew I wouldn't raise my staff against a former lover, even if her affection had never been real.

The thread of flame flared, and I locked down my will again. It steadied back down into the narrow stream.

I had cans of Sterno that I used for my alchemy, I realized. There was no reason to do this. Exhaust myself just to get some hot water. 

It didn't matter, I kept that thin trickle going.

It kept me from thinking not about what I had done, but what was going to happen next.

Provided no wrenching changes had been performed when I wasn't looking, which was always possible, Varya was going to wake up and seduce me.

Or she would leave and seduce some other guy.

Neither option set well with me.

But she had to have sex. Bob had said it. She had confirmed it. The only way for her to be fully healed was by being with a man. I couldn't satisfy that kind of major damage with a kiss and licking her cheek again.

I didn't want it like this. Not like this. Not with her. I didn't do casual relationships, and that meant no casual sex. And with everything we were going through, everything we both knew about how it had to be, sleeping together would royally screw everything up even more.

So let her go? Let her go find some other guy and give him what I could never have? Some guy that I had no idea how he would treat her? Probably like how I treated Lara, and Lasciel, the two biggest slutzillas I knew. With sneering contempt.

The flame expanded alarmingly, and I began to sweat as I locked it down.

But I hadn't needed to. The water had started bubbling, and the physical manifestation of the steam was going to drift across the circle and break it soon. 

I released my will and almost listed to the side, dizzying exhaustion swimming through me. After taking a moment, I climbed to my feet, stuck the rod under my arm, and picked up the pot by the simple expedient of wrapping my hands in my duster. I managed to get up the stairs, pot, rod, and all. Grabbed some clean cloths and medical safety scissors from the kitchen, and headed back towards my patient.

It didn't take me long to cut the shredded clothes off of her, there wasn’t much of them left. It took a lot longer to wet the cloths in the hot water and sponge all the filth off of her. I moved clinically, making sure to get every speck of blood, every dab of dirt. 

Some part of my mind observed the lack of anything provocative about what I was doing. Considering how even the flash of a thigh or the incline of her neck had been sending me into fits of craving since I'd met her, it was interesting to note that there was absolutely nothing while my hands roamed over her nude form. She was a marble angel, with all the titillating invitation of cold stone.

When I was done, I took her clothes and threw them in the fireplace. Emptying the pockets, I balled up my duster and tossed that in after. Dumped some bleach into the pot, let it sit for ten minutes, poured it out. 

Returning to her, I covered her with a blanket, wrapping it around her carefully. I realized I didn't even know if she felt the cold. She'd said she did. But she'd also tried to have me believe I hadn't bruised her cheek and bloodied her nose. If she thought it would make me concerned, she would minimize or try to hide it.

Tending to her done, my back and shoulders erupted sharp red blossoms of pain. Hissing, I pulled off my shirt and ran to the bathroom. Renewed agony as the cold water sluiced over me as I bent over into the stall, just letting my back get flushed, watching the pink water flow down the drain with my arms braced against the wall. 

Finally the water ran clear and I snagged a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and clumsily poured it over me. The cold water had sealed the cuts, although it hadn't done pulped muscles any favors, and the peroxide should bubble out any remaining dirt. It would have to do. 

Snagging a towel, I dried off. There were most likely still slivers of glass and threads of nylon in the wounds, and my shoulders probably looked like purple and black hamburger, but I had more important things to deal with.

Physical pain was easy. I was good at the physical pain. A real pro, promoted from the amateur leagues a long time ago. Some shredded skin and muscle tissue was nothing compared to how mauled I usually got. I would need a prospectus to detail all the scars I'd accumulated.

This time Varya had taken the pounding in my stead.

Back in my room, I pulled on another t-shirt, Queen this time, the one with cartoon band members that said "It's a Kind of Magic". Then I wedged a chair next to my bed and sat down, holding her hand.

Waiting. Thinking. Trying to figure out what to do.

When she shifted and sighed, rolling over on her side, I jumped with a little yelp. 

The cold eldritch cast had fallen away, and she was Varya again. She'd rolled over facing me, and I saw her face as she snuggled half of it down into the pillow, drawing up the blankets with her free hand. 

It was so…normal. She could have been any woman sleeping. Her hair fanned out around her in glistening waves, still streaked dark in some places where I'd had to work the grime out. Her snowy lashes rested against her pale cheek. Her hand gripped mine in a sudden convulsive movement.

She was not a small woman, I've noticed this on several occasions. But looking down at her as she slept, she seemed so little, and vulnerable. Delicate. 

And also as she slept, her sexuality returned. I began noticing the curves beneath the blanket, the way her lips parted, the gentle throb of pulse in the base of her throat. The scent of her, fresh alpine flowers, filled the room. 

Desperation cut through the numbness shrouding me. Desperation and the heady, spinning desire I knew so well from induced lust. This time, though, it was worse, because I really wanted her. She wasn't a monster I had to resist for her sake or my own. I wanted it. Man, I wanted it bad. And the reasons for not having her were getting harder and harder to remember.

I could still leave. I still had time.

I could head out, take Mouse, wander around for a few hours, she'd be gone by the time I came back. We would never have to talk about it, never have to think about it, never have to admit what she'd had to do. We could go on, trying to force a friendship out of something that kept fighting to be more.

But I looked down at the hand in mine, that perfect, pale hand, and saw it as it had been, smashed and broken, nothing more than a shapeless mass of blood, bone, and flesh.

And I knew I couldn't leave her alone. Not ever.

I'd never be able to walk away from her. I wouldn't be able to leave her. I hadn't been able to for the short duration of us knowing each other. Even when I'd been spitting foulness at her, believing her to be a Denarian, I'd made her walk away. Because I wouldn’t have. For all that I knew how it had to be, I also knew it wouldn't matter. I couldn't walk away. She would have to.

And I would do what I had to do to make sure she was safe. I would do what she needed me to. Including giving her what she needed to heal her. The very thought of another man callously touching her made me physically ill, and I felt the distant roar of furious wrath on the other side of the frozen shield inside me. I wouldn't be able to pretend it wasn't happening, and I wouldn't be able to pretend it hadn't afterwards.

I made my choice.

"Harry?"

The lush, curling eyelashes parted, showing the blue eyes.

She shot up in the bed, the blankets falling away.

"Are you all right? Did you get hurt?" She reached out to touch my face. I let her, closing my eyes as her fingertips brushed the skin of my cheeks, my nose, my eyes. "Did Thomas?"

"I'm fine, Varya. I promise. Thomas got hurt, but he'll be okay. He's tougher than he looks."

"The hair. Did you find the hair?"

"I did."

"The focus?"

"Gone. Destroyed."

Her hand fell away as she released a huge sigh of relief, hunching over. It didn't last long. She saw the rumpled blankets and yanked them up to cover her.

"Now you need to leave," she said, not looking at me.

"No."

"Please, Harry. You know what I must do. I won't be in control for much longer. I will seduce you."

"I know."

Her eyes snapped to mine, and this time, this time, I cupped her face in my hands, forcing her eyes to mine. This time my yearning for a soulgaze would not be denied.

My room melted away, her weak and surprised struggling against me floated away from my awareness. The falling began, and I dove forward, into the crystal blue depths of her eyes.

I was on what looked like the flattened top of a mountain, thunder and lightning clashed in a roiling black sky. On my left was what looked like a Greek tholos or Roman rotunda, in ruins, the graceful columns covered in blackened ivy, the roof cracked and flaking away. 

Before me was a cross. Not like in the crucifixion, but an X. There was a figure attached to it, but…something was off about the shape. I moved closer.

The cross must have been twelve feet tall. Varya was on it, nude, arms and legs spread. 

I saw what had made the silhouette wrong from a distance.

Wings.

Beautiful, feathering wings, bursting from between her shoulders, spreading behind her in a soft whiteness that would make clouds weep.

Tumbled at her feet were other wings, in a pile. They were covered in dirt, and streaked in blood where they had once been attached to her.

I studied her as she hung suspended. There were no nails impaled through hands and feet keeping her in place, instead there were writhing red chains around wrists, ankles, thighs, biceps, and throat.

I looked closer, and the links of the chains were figures, tiny human figures, engaged in every sexual act imaginable. They threshed and twisted against her skin, their bodies joined together in frantic coupling. There was no pleasure, no joy. It was all frenzied lust and unquenchable desire. The Second Circle of Dante's _Inferno_ in miniature. Where they touched her, they had rubbed raw patches that would never heal.

My eyes went up of their own accord, and for the first time I studied her face. 

Despondent, destitute eyes were fixed on the sky, never wavering, never leaving it. Despair and remorse was etched into her alabaster pale features. Her mouth was tight, her teeth almost bared in a strange blend of defiance and supplication as she stared upwards, unmoving.

A noise behind me. I turned, to see a man moving towards her. It was Ilyvich. No, no it wasn't. 

It was Father Ilya Gavril.

He wore a simple priest's cassock, dark brown wool, tied at the waist with a rope. A familiar pearl-lined pectoral cross was fastened to his breast. No goatee, no styled hair. His hair was shaggy and thick, and he was clean shaven. He looked bigger than Ilyvich had, somehow. Not in girth or height, but in presence. 

The dark eyes were full of compassion and a sort of broken strength. Where the sharp cheekbones had looked sinister on Ilyvich, on him they seemed to enhance a sense of wisdom, and sadness. And a surety of knowledge that had nothing to do with facts.

Faith. He felt like Michael.

" _Tovarichka_ , how I mourn to see you like this," he said to her, laying a hand on her foot. His voice was soothing and deep, and full of love for her. I felt a stab of jealousy that he was able to say it so clearly. She didn't seem to know he was there, her frozen countenance still staring at the sky. "There are no answers for you there. You must find them within yourself now."

Then he turned away from her and _looked_ at me.

Recognition in a soulgaze had only ever happened once before, and that was because of a very, very powerful spell wrought by my mother between me and Thomas. 

Dealing with the infernal and the divine was always full of surprises.

"Can you…see me?"

"I can indeed, Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden."

Instead of the usual gush of fear at hearing my full name, I felt reassured, almost comforted.

"What is this?"

"This is Varya."

"This isn't like any other soulgaze I've ever had."

"Varya is absolutely unique. You will never have another one."

"They're usually not so long. Images, allegory, metaphor. Not…conversation."

"To understand Varya, you must see."

"See what?"

"All of it. As does she."

"She…is seeing me, like this?"

"In the sense that she is having an exceptional experience within you, just as you are within her."

"You should not be here, Ilya." 

"Uriel?" I demanded. Sure enough, the archangel, a slender, golden haired youth, was walking towards us from the direction of the temple-looking ruin. He looked very stern. I realized he had the same silver-blue eyes that Varya had. I didn't like him much, for all that he'd done for me.

He had another guise, one as Jake the janitor, who usually showed up to offer cryptic advice that made me feel a little better. But it didn't change what he was. The Spymaster and wetwork specialist of God. The air around him usually made me feel a little weak in the knees, a little more conscious of my own mortality and frailty.

Right now it was just pissing me off.

"And I am not, Holy Sephiroth," Ilya replied equably, utterly unruffled. "I am but one aspect of what she is."

Uriel pursed his lips, looking with distaste at Varya. "You are an aspect infused with the essence of the first man she knew."

"Knew?" I asked, pretty much figuring it out for myself, but my brain was not working normally at the moment. Manufacturer's defect.

"Biblically," Uriel said, face taut with disgust. "As her defiler, you are more than a representation created by her. You are as Ilya Gavril is."

"No," Ilya said sadly, shaking his head. "If I were, I would be strong enough to break the atrocities at play here."

"You should not be here either, Harry," Uriel said to me. "This is not meant for you."

"But I am seeing it. What does all this mean?"

"It is an abomination in the eyes of God," Uriel spat. "Where we stand should not exist."

"That is your Father's words, or your own, Revered Creation?"

"It is the truth. We— _she_ cannot have a soul."

"Which you have entered, uninvited," I said. "Regardless of whether it's supposed to exist or not. Aren't you kind of not supposed to be able to do that?"

"You wield my gift of soulfire, Harry, you were my invitation when you made this foolish decision. Leave now, leave her to her fate. Give her that kindness."

"You do _not_ want to talk to me about kindness where she is concerned, Uriel," I snarled. "I am really not happy with you or your Boss right now. Don't push me."

"Or you'll what?" Uriel said mildly. "Burn me alive? I like you, Harry, and I respect what you do even though your faith is not optimal. You are a good man. But you do not know what you meddle with. Leave the Derelict to drown in her lust, to complete her mission or not. Even give her the seed she requires if you feel the need to sate yourself within her, but leave her."

A growl ripped from my throat as I stepped forward, but Ilya got in between us.

"You are known for your pitiless nature, Light of God, for those who have earned your contempt, but you do overstep here."

"You, a filament of an unclean creation, dare to tell me my boundaries?"

"Yes, I do," Ilya said gently. "Begone. Please. You do not belong here. If it were not for this man you would not even be able to enter. You cheated."

Uriel's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, then with a glare at me and the priest, he vanished in a flash of white and gold light.

"Hell's bells," I said weakly, all the fight draining out of me, leaving me shaking.

"You are the first to see," Ilya said. "And as it is you, the arrival of the archangel does not surprise me."

"To see what?"

"This," he gestured around. "This miracle."

"This is a _miracle_?"

"Before there was only Void. Now there is all this. Creation, wizard. The aspect is dark, but its very existence is proof of light itself."

I had no answer for that.

"Can you help her?" he asked me.

"I don't know," I said to him.

"A fair answer. A wise answer. You have, at least, shown her that she is not so different, so much a Derelict as she believed herself to be."

"What do you mean?"

He smiled, and it was filled with kindness and humor, faith and love. Stab, stab, stab. He could show it so openly. "You will see."

"Is it enough to save her?"

"That is a complicated question. Save her from what, exactly?"

"From oblivion."

"You ask the question I can answer. Yes."

"But not from…this?" I gestured to the cross.

"No," he said, grief making his voice thick. "You cannot save her from this. Only she can."

"By freeing you."

"In part."

"And the other part?"

"That she must discover for herself."

"Please. I'll fall on my knees if I have to, but please, tell me."

"I did. She must discover it for herself."

"Oh…I understand."

"Now I must complete this. I have only been able to put it off for this long."

"Complete what?"

But he had turned away from me, and I knew the connection had been broken. I was back in nonentity mode.

" _Tovarichka._ Look at me."

Her eyes blinked, looked down.

"Harry?"

That slammed me in the stomach like a sledgehammer.

"No…not Harry…who…is Harry?" she said, voice small and lost, confused and frightened. But her eyes had fixed on the priest, and had never seen me. 

I've mentioned I've done a few soulgazes in my time, right? Never, not once, had I made such a direct impact on someone that their _soul_ called my name. It was a shattering experience, and I had no idea what it could mean.

"Varya, I'm here," I called out, trying to touch her. But she did not hear me, and my hand passed through her like a ghost's. I'd known better, but I hadn't been able to stop myself.

"I do not know, perhaps someone who will help you."

"Father Gavril, have you come to save me?"

"You know I have not. It is you who must save me."

"I cannot," she cried, thrashing in her bonds. "I am too weak! I cannot! I abandoned my Father, I have no strength without Him!"

"You know this is not the case," he said gently. "You must stand on your own, _tovarichka._ You must show you can."

"I am but an empty vessel," she said, going limp. "To be filled with the power of my Father. Without Him, I am less than nothing."

"You are Varya Nadeanenko," he said sternly. "The woman whom I love. The woman who loves me. I love no empty vessel."

Some of the bleakness cleared from her brow. In the sky the lightning slowed, the thunder grew quieter. 

"Ilya…"

His countenance changed, the eyes narrowed, growing cruel. The benevolent smile became a contemptuous smirk. The feeling of Michael vanished, replaced by the forbidding aspect of the archdemon.

"It is too late for Ilya," Ilyvich said. "It was as soon as you spoke to him. He is gone. I am what remains. And I will make you remember it!"

Striding behind her, he loomed in size, adding several feet to his already considerable height. Reaching down, he grasped one of her wings, and ripped it off with the squelching sound of tearing flesh. Her screams filled the air, and the sky did battle once more.

From behind, he took her chin, pressing his mouth close to her ear. "You bring me here to torment you. For a thousand years you have brought me. I begin to think you enjoy it, _tovarichka._ "

"You are not…real," she gasped.

"Of course I am, my sweet. I am as real as you are. And will never let you be free. Or the priest. Or," he looked right at me, licking her face where blood had smeared it with a long wet tongue. "Anyone who touches your heart. You are _mine._ And you will belong to no other."

And he surged in front of her, covering her body with his.

I flung myself backwards with a shout, away from the sight, away from the horror of it.

And hit my head on the wall as the chair I had been sitting in tipped over backwards. My shoulders shrieked in outrage. I scrambled to my feet with a groan, rubbing the back of my head.

To see Varya sitting on the bed, mouth agape. We just stared at each other for a moment, panting hard. Tears streaked her face. 

Considering I've had people faint after seeing whatever it was my soul consisted of, I assumed she didn't have a much more pleasant experience than I had.

"What—was that?" she stammered out, gulping for air. "Chains…So much pain, so much despair…but such strength, and courage, too…"

"Soulgaze," I said, cutting her off. I did not want to know. Then I remembered what I had done to get the soulgaze, what I had just forced her to go through. "I'm sorry, Varya. I shouldn't have--"

"You must a have a soul for a soulgaze," she interrupted flatly.

"Yes, you do," I said, realizing. 

"I do not have a soul."

"Yes, you do," I repeated. This, this was what Father Gavril had meant. Why Uriel was so aggravated, disgusted even. Why it had to be me. "And I just proved it."

"No," she shook her head violently, hair lashing the air around her. "No. I do not have a soul, I cannot. It is impossible."

"You're one of us now, Varya," I told her. "Soul and all. Not mortal, but not an—an empty vessel, either."

She folded her hands and held them close to her breast, over her heart.

"A soul…" she whispered. "Can it be? Can it really be?"

Her voice was filled with such unexpected hope and the beginnings of joy I smiled.

"Apparently it can, since you picked one up somewhere along the line. Look, you said it yourself. Souls are molded with experience and living. I think you've done enough to grow one of your own."

She lunged up off the bed, throwing her arms around my neck, laughing and crying at the same time.

"Oh, Harry! I have a soul! I have a _soul!"_

Embracing her back, I swung her around in the limited space of my room.

"Yes, you do, Varya! You have a soul!"

"This—it is _change_! I have changed!"

"No more of the oblivion talk, okay?"

"Absolutely no more oblivion talk. I have a _soul_. I will not give it up so meekly. It will be protected. It is mine. My soul!"

Fierce relief flowed through me. Gavril had been right. I had been able to save her from choosing to be unmade. Varya Nadeanenko, whatever else might befall her, would not go quietly into that good night.

"He has not abandoned me, He has not."

"You did this, Varya. You grew this soul, from your own will and your own potential. This is yours. It doesn't belong to anyone else."

"And you showed me, Harry. You showed me that I am not bereft! I am not—a Derelict! I have something that is mine, belongs to me, more than destructive love and despair. I am more than that now. I can be more than that!"

And then she really turned on the waterworks, clinging to me, great tearing sobs wracking her frame. But it was from sheer relief and uncontainable elation, not a shred of desperation or futility to be found.

At that moment, I think I could have gotten all the pockets full of sunshine I could ever use. Sheer happiness filled me. 

I mean, come on, it's not every day you see the realization of a soul. It's kind of a big deal.

"I had no idea!" she hiccupped, wiping her eyes on the shoulder of my t-shirt. "None. I suppose it grew so slowly I never felt the transformation. But I can feel it now, comparing to what I was when I was first cast out."

"Then why wouldn't you look at me this whole time?" I demanded in mock anger. "Do you have any idea how _frustrating_ that is?"

"Because I knew wizards could soulgaze, and I didn't want you to discover I had no soul to gaze upon. I was _trying_ to hide my nature, Harry. Even you would have suspected I was not human if you saw I had no soul." She made an indelicate sound, then said dryly. "You suspected I was a Fallen even without a soulgaze, after all."

I lost it. It wasn't that funny, but my guffaws were equivalent to her sobs, a pressure release.

I laughed so hard I couldn't even stand up anymore, much less keep her held off the ground. I sank onto the bed, knees giving out, but we still held each other, she straddling my lap.

I wasn't sure who started kissing who first. I just remember the taste of her skin on my lips, the blaze of her mouth on my face, my throat. At first they were dozens of little kisses, full of delight and exuberance and an expression of all the huge happy-time emotions that were bursting out of us.

Then the kisses got slower, longer, the velvet of her against my tongue. Hot wetness engulfing the lobe of my ear. 

I lowered my head, nuzzling her chest. She sighed my name.

And then stiffened. I didn't let go. I knew she wanted to escape for my sake, and I was having none of it. Not without having my say.

"I saw what you are," I said, sliding my fingertips over the tips of her breasts, down her ribs. "And it doesn’t matter. I don't care, Varya. I want you. I have wanted you since you told me I was a wizard. I have ached to have you. If this is the only way I can, I'll take it."

She shivered against me, her back arching, lifting her breasts towards me.

"Harry…I don't want you to…hate me again…"

My hand trailed down, found the thatch of silver hair, slick dew beyond, explored it. She moaned low in her throat.

"I never hated you, Varya. Even when I thought you were a Fallen, I didn't hate you. That's why I was so furious. I should have hated you, despised you, but I was just hurt."

"Harry…" A flush highlighted her cheeks, and her hips began to move against my hand.

I dumped her to one side and got to my feet.

"But you need to accept something about me," I told her as she goggled at me, sprawled on top of the bed. Even though my skin felt like it was scorching off, even though I was so hard it was painful, even though the wet feel of her on my fingers was driving me insane, I had to say it. I had to tell her. Now, before the pheromones she was exuding made it impossible for either of us to think. "I love you, Varya Nadeanenko. Come what may, demons, Black Council, Marcone, White Council. I love you. If you don't want that, tell me now, and I will leave."

Her face was a study of warring dichotomy, the curse trying to force her to complete the seduction, her awareness trying to process what I had said.

I couldn't help her with this. I couldn't move. This was something she had to figure out for herself. If she wanted me, she could have me, but that meant taking _all_ of me. I had never given myself by half-measures, and I couldn't start now.

The tears started up again, and she buried her face in her hands. She said something, but I couldn't make any of it out. 

I went cold. If she rejected me now, it was done. Over. I would never be able to be with her, I wouldn't be up to going through this twice. There was no way I'd be able to resist what she was offering me, and I'd do it knowing it was the equivalent of putting on a Band-Aid, with all lack of implication and meaning that went with it. 

"Varya?" I asked, swallowing hard. I realized I had no idea what she was going to say, it was a sudden unsettling vacuum.

"I said, 'I love you as well, you stubborn, foolish wizard'," she said clearly, expression wry exasperation. With me, with the situation, mostly with herself.

There was a sound in my head, like a broken church bell. I didn't have time to think about it.

This time she reached for me, sliding her arms around me, and pulling me down on top of her.

Her mouth met mine, and sweetness exploded in my brain. I fumbled with my clothes, and with a growl she literally ripped them apart. There was no soft exploration this time, no tantalizing temptation. This was raw passion and desire. A guttural grunt as her teeth sank into my shoulder, an animalistic snarl as I raked my nails across her skin.

Long legs wrapped around my waist, urging me inside and I complied, thrusting my way into her with a powerful surge of my hips. She cried out, undulating beneath me, mouth bruising mine in her fervor. Tight, smoldering sultriness surrounded me, liquid velvet constricting around me in spasms.

With a wild rush of strength, she rolled me over onto my back, rising above me like a goddess. I hissed as my mangled shoulders hit the bed, but the pain wasn't nearly as bad as it should have been, and what was there just fused with the ardor, heightening everything to ecstatic, mind-blowing intensity. I gripped her thighs as she bucked and heaved against me, her cries matching my own. 

We tried to make it last, tried to make it linger, but it was no use. There was too much momentum built up behind it to stop it. Not just the last twenty-four hours, but the time before of being alone. The fear and the frustration, the ache and the hurt. It all culminated in us together, an avalanche of long years forcing ourselves to be distant, denying our needs. We were flooded with pleasure, wave after wave crashing through us, and I filled her with what she needed to survive.

She collapsed onto my chest, my hands sliding off her thighs to lie limp on the bed.

We didn't say anything for a long time. Speech was just not possible.

"Did you…hell's bells, how do I ask this?" I finally started. "Did you…get enough?"

"Yes," she said with that low, throaty chuckle that, even as spent as I was, caused certain things to stir. "I got enough."

"Oh." I was oddly disappointed.

"For now. I will be needing more."

"I'll give you all you need."

Raising her head, she looked at me with that smug satisfaction women get when they are well and truly satisfied in bed, like there's some secret fulfillment that men give them but would never understand. 

"Were you—yourself when I said…it?"

"I was, Harry. I heard it. And I was myself when I replied."

"Oh stars and stones, finally something to be grateful for," I said, blowing out a gout of air. "And you're okay with it?"

"I shouldn't be," she said, kissing the tip of my nose. "But I am."

She slid to one side of me, then threw a leg over mine and an arm over my chest, burrowing down into the mattress.

"You don't sleep," I said.

"But you do."

"Don't wanna," I mumbled, knowing I wasn't going to have much say in a few minutes. 

"But you need to. You probably used much of your energy tonight."

"You can say that again."

Another one of those toe-curling chuckles. "I meant magically."

"So did I."

"Harry," she said patiently. "I meant you used much of your arcane power."

"Yeah, I did." My heart went icy. "Yeah…I did."

"What happened?" she asked in a low voice.

"I think I…maybe killed a lot of people." 

"Oh, no. Harry, what—what happened?"

"You got hurt."

"And?"

"You got hurt."

"We both knew it was a likely outcome. That's all?"

"That was enough. I blew off the face of the building, into the mercenaries I knew were out there. With fire. A lot of fire." I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes. "Hell's bells, I did it again. Red Court all over again…"

"They were enemies, were they not?"

"Yes, but Varya, I _killed_ people. I killed _people_. With _magic._ "

"Oh," she said quietly. "I know it is one of your Laws, but it seems to me that when someone comes at you with overwhelming force, you can only use what you have against them. You used magic. They used fully automatic assault rifles. You have fire. They have incendiary rounds. Was there anything you did that they could not have recreated with the tools of man?"

"Maybe the giant glowy fist, but—"

"And the purpose of magic is to defend, to preserve. It is the essence of life. Which you cannot use if someone takes yours away. What gives them the right to use science, which exists to explain and explore life, against you?"

"I see what you're trying to say, but—" I lowered my hands, but still couldn't look at her.

"I am not condoning it," she said softly, using the lightest of touches on my cheek to turn my face towards hers. "Killing is wrong. It is a sin. No matter the cause. But what you do not understand is, it is not an _unforgivable_ sin. Do not seek it out, but when you must in order to defend, to preserve that which you hold dear, atone for it, but do not torture yourself over it."

"There was another way," I said. "No, listen to me. You can make all the justifications you want, and I appreciate what you're trying to do. But the fact of the matter is I let my anger control me, control my magic. I wanted it to. I wanted to hurt them the way they hurt you. I didn't have to call down the fire. I could have found another way. That's not using magic to defend or protect. That's warping it. That's really close to black magic."

"Do you regret it? Not that you may get punished for it, but do you regret _it?_ The loss of life, the misuse of magic to cause death?"

"Of course I do," it was nearly a snarl. "How could anyone kill another human being like that and not wish they could take it back? Do it differently? I burned them alive, Varya."

"Then repent. As you always do. Atone. As you always try to."

"It can't be that easy."

"You believe how your excoriate yourself is easy? How you isolate yourself is easy? The dread of seeing the fear in your friends is easy? Harry, you punish yourself more than anyone else could ever punish you."

There was no reply I could give to that.

"I am something of an expert on forgiveness and unforgiveable sin."

"Is it—forgivable? Is it? Can I…is it okay if I forgive myself? Just a little?"

I must have been really, really tired. Part of my brain was in absolute freak out mode that I was even saying these things. I sounded like one of Bob's stupid romance novels. But everything was still too new, too raw. From the first pop culture reference she'd made, I'd started needing her, and I hadn't even known why. She was reaching out a hand and I was grabbing onto it to keep from going underneath the blackness again.

I had been wracking my brain this whole time trying to figure out how to save her, and I realized maybe she'd been doing the same thing for me.

"You've carried the burden long enough," she said. "Time to put it down. Otherwise how can you pick up another one?"

"Always another one," I mumbled, unable to keep my eyes open. Even my back and shoulders had gone pleasantly numb.

"Hush now. Sleep. And give him pleasant dreams tonight."

"Who're you talking to?"

"Your subconscious."

"How d'you know 'bout him?"

"Sleep, Harry. I will be here when you awaken."

I slid down into the soothing comfort of sleep.

My dreams were all replays of Varya and I, the good moments.

And the really good moments.

  


 


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief moment of respite for Harry and Varya. 
> 
> But both know it can't last for long.

# Chapter Twenty-Eight

When I opened my eyes, I felt the heat and weight of another person pressed against me, but despite how long I had been alone in that bed, there was no moment of disorientation. Not even 'uh oh'.

I knew exactly who she was and how she had gotten there.

"Good morning, Harry," she said, and I smiled, turning my head and meeting her eyes. 

It was just as nice as I had thought it would be. Everything I had wanted and more.

"Good morning," I replied muzzily, pulling her on top of me. Her hair fell around us, until the world was only her face curtained in platinum. Lifting my head, I kissed her mouth.

She didn't even have morning breath. How awesome was that?

The way she responded showed she was more than ready for another treatment, and I was absolutely ready to oblige.

So of course someone started hammering on my front door.

"Maybe they'll go away," I muttered. That little snot hope was nowhere to be found.

The 1812 Overture kept up, and I jumped out of bed saying somewhat scandalous things. Yanking on some new jeans, as the ones I'd been wearing the previous night were trashed, I stomped my way out and hauled the door open.

" _What?"_

"Oh, thank God, you're okay."

"See? I told you he'd be fine. We'd know if something really bad happened to him, Georgia."

Two married werewolves from a local university's graduate studies program stood on my doorstep. Real werewolves, theriomorphs who could change into wolves. Billy and Georgia. They ran a pack of werewolves called the Alphas, and exercised supernatural vigilantism in their territory. 

They were also friends and gaming buddies of mine.

"Wrong hobbit hole," I told them. "I am not looking for someone to share an adventure. Try the Sackville-Bagginses down the street."

"You might want to let us in," Billy, a barrel-chested, squat brick wall of a kid said. "Murphy will probably be here soon."

"We brought peace offerings," Georgia, a tall, willowy blond said, holding out a box of doughnuts and one of those mother-of-all-cartons of coffee. "Because we just showed up. We tried to call first, but your phone isn't working again."

I glanced behind me at the rotary phone on an end table next to my couch. Grimacing, I supposed it made sense, considering how upset and…excited I got last night. The device was immune to all but the worst of my kablooey.

"Come in," I said, parting the wards with my will and stepping back. 

"You weren't at the game Friday night," Billy said as Georgia set the doughnuts on the coffee table and took the carton into the kitchen. I heard her rummaging around, getting paper plates and coffee cups. Mouse greeted them with a slight wag and his doggy grin. Billy gave him scratches.

"He only likes you because you have personal knowledge of the best places to scratch, you know."

"Naw, he likes me because I'm the bomb," Billy replied.

"So I wasn't at the game Friday," I said. "What made you think something was wrong?"

"When we saw a building had gotten blown up last night after someone in an SUV went on a high speed chase through town. We put two and two together."

"A building blows up and you automatically assume I’m involved?"

"Weren't you?" Billy asked.

"Well…yeah, but you shouldn't just automatically assume it."

They both just looked at me.

"At least it didn't burn down this time. Variety is the spice of life," I quipped.

"So why would Murphy get involved?" I asked. Abruptly the coffee didn't smell so good anymore, and the doughnuts were far from appetizing. "Some nutjob bombed a Ukrainian museum and killed a bunch of people. That sounds like Homeland Security to me, not Chicago Special Investigations."

"Killed a bunch of—what are you talking about, Harry?" Billy demanded. "There weren't any bodies at the scene. No one got hurt."

"A lot of people got hurt," I said grimly. "I know. I was there. I saw them."

"Harry," Georgia said gently, having emerged from the kitchen. She pressed a mug of coffee into my hands, it was light tan from the excess of milk and sugar she knew I liked in it. "The first responders said that there was some sort of clear mucus all over everything. But when forensics showed up, they could find no evidence of it."

"Mucus…ectoplasm?"

"Anosioplasm, to be precise," Varya said, coming out of my bedroom wearing my tuxedo shirt. Billy goggled, then looked at me.

I would so be lying if I said I didn't puff up and strut just a little, despite the strife inside me. Just her being there made it better somehow. The gloating at having a hot girlfriend that I had obviously just spent the night with didn't hurt either.

Georgia just smacked Billy on the back of the head. He started guiltily, and kept his eyes firmly fixed on Varya's forehead whenever he looked at her from then on.

"I know exactly how you feel, kid," I told him with a smirk.

"Hi," Georgia said, crossing to her and offering her hand. "I'm Georgia. My _husband_ over there is Will."

Varya smiled, and all of Georgia's territorial instincts died away. "Very pleased to meet you. I am Varya Nadeanenko." She paused, then added. "I have a soul."

"Uh…congratulations?" Georgia said as Varya shook her hand. Although a little confused, Georgia was sincere, as it was obviously important to Varya. Georgia was one of the sweetest people I knew. Although she could literally turn into a killer bitch if she thought Billy was threatened. Interesting contrast.

"Thank you."

Georgia considered Varya, glanced at Billy, who then got the same considering look. I knew what was coming next.

"Archon," Billy said. Varya jumped a little.

"Uh…nothing divine, guys," I chimed in.

"We're not doing a power campaign right now, anyways," Georgia replied, shaking her head.

"But she's perfect."

"That's a really complex character type for a beginner."

"Okay, okay. High elf then."

"Paladin?"

"Galadriel-type. Mystic sorceress."

"That works," Georgia agreed. 

"Only if she gets to be with the mighty-thewed barbarian," I said, sipping my coffee and sitting on the couch she and Varya were standing behind. I held out my hand. Varya took it and swayed around the couch, sitting down and leaning against me, pulling my arm around her shoulders, tucking those endless legs under her.

Life was so, so good at that moment.

"That's metagaming," Billy complained.

"I take it you are the mighty-thewed barbarian?" Varya asked.

"Yes," I said deepening my voice, talking from my chest. "I will protect fair elven maid with my mighty club!"

"I actually prefer to play a halfling," she said. "And a rogue if you have room. Someone clever and able to think their way out of situations."

"You play role playing games?" I demanded incredulously.

"I have not in many years," she said. "But I have, on occasion, been known to toss the polyhedral dice."

Kissing the top of her head I gave her a squeeze with my arm. 

"You are truly a nerd after my own heart," I said, warm down to my toes.

Georgia looked at us, blushed, and looked away.

"Harry," Billy whispered. "You could at least do up your pants, man. You're totally standing at attention, and you're not wearing any underwear."

My turn to blush as I jumped up from the couch and high-tailed it into my bedroom. 

"Sorry about that. But no comments on the slice-and-dice on my shoulders?" I called, stripping off the jeans and getting into a more complete wardrobe. The kind that included things like underwear and shirts. 

Billy and Georgia, being theriomorphs and thus in the habit of losing their clothing every time they changed forms, were used to nudity. Apparently full-on erections crossed the boundaries of good taste for them. I couldn't blame them. I was sure my cheeks were flaming red.

"Harry, did you hit your head or something?" Georgia asked as I rejoined them. She was honestly concerned, not being facetious. "You look…um…very healthy."

"Really?" Craning my head around I tried to get a look at my shoulders. I couldn't see any damage, and they hadn't been hurting me all morning. 

That was somewhat chilling. 

Healing magic was great in fantasy games, but in real life it required detailed and unique knowledge of an individual person's physiology, and a crapton of power and control. Despite the nomenclature, it was never _a_ healing spell, it was healing spells. Dozens of them performed almost simultaneously. It usually needed someone really powerful, like my fairy godmother, or a thirteen participant ritual to heal most anything.

My eye was drawn to Varya.

Or something divine. Angel tears. They weren't supposed to exist, a myth, a legend, angels weren't even supposed to have tear ducts. But here she was. And she had cried a lot last night. I had licked the residue of them off her skin.

Well I'll be.

"Okay," I said, marshalling my thoughts, ignoring the abrupt memory of the texture and flavor of her in my mouth. The coffee was good to overlay it. I sat back down before I continued to embarrass myself. "Let me get organized here."

"Should I get dressed as well?" Varya asked. 

"No," Billy and I said at the same time. Georgia and I both gave him the hairy eyeball. He just grinned with a bit of embarrassment.

"You are not allowed to hang around Thomas Raith anymore," I told him, picking up my mug. 

"While I'm up, Varya would you like some coffee?" Georgia asked. 

"That would be lovely, thank you."

"How do you take it?"

"Black, please."

"Aw, and we were doing so well compatibility-wise," I said.

"I am sure you will cope magnificently well."

"I'll have some too, sweetie," Billy called.

"You can get your own."

"O-kay," I said, forestalling his indignant protest. "First things first. Evaporating goo. That's not enough to call Murphy in."

"It is when it's accompanied by three SUVs covered with explosive marks and the occupants are all amnesiac, and a buttload of illegal weaponry and body armor buried in the rubble from the blast. Body armor, I might add, with no bodies in it," he said with a sulk.

"Yup, that would do it. That would not have been on the news, though."

"We have resources, Harry," Georgia said. "Besides the Paranet. It's not like we're new to the game here."

My mood, which had taken a nosedive, had soared to new heights when I found out that once again, my reckless anger hadn't endangered or killed any mortals or innocents. I knew that black wrath was an issue I was going to have to wrestle with someday.

But it was not this day.

"The mucus," Billy said. "The noisy-plasm."

"Anosioplasm," I told him as Georgia handed Varya a steaming mug and then sat down next to Billy with her own. True to her word, Billy did not get one. "As I have learned that hagioplasm is holy goop, hagio meaning holy, then anosioplasm is unholy goop, anosios meaning unholy."

"Truly, you have a dizzying intellect," Billy said.

"Just wait 'til I get going! Where was I?"

"Hell," Varya murmured, taking a sip of the coffee.

"Oh, yeah. About that. We have an archdemon in town."

"He most likely used the anosioplasm to make temporary hosts for the dealmakers waiting their turn," Varya said. "Cheap mercenaries, who are unwaveringly loyal to him, and are ultimately expendable. When you summon a demon, they don't come in their own bodies, they can't. Their form is created from anosioplasm, and they inhabit it. And even an archdemon has to get permission to use it, but they can shape it into any form they like for habitation by their minions."

That certainly got their attention, but I held up a hand, forestalling the questions.

"Yes, he had a big bad evil planned for Chicago, and most of the area around the Great Lakes, including Canada, but we put a stop to it before it could get any worse."

"Any worse? What did this big bad evil entail, exactly?" Billy demanded.

"Promise dealer demons," I said. "They've been revving up the creative types in town, and stripping their gears in the process. I can't…save the ones who have already made deals, but there shouldn't be any more of them. Not on the scale they were at."

"Promise dealers? Like Daniel Webster?" Georgia asked. "Or the crossroads demons on T.V?"

"Exactly like Daniel Webster. Only these guys aren't getting a trial. Don’t know about T.V. I don't exactly watch it. Hard to when you don't have electricity, and Thomas gets mad when I watch at his place. You know, 'touchdown Chiefs!' bzzt."

"That sucks," Billy said, Georgia, snuggled up to him, all apparently forgiven, nodded sadly. "The guys who made the deals, not the T.V. thing. Although I guess that sucks, too."

"I'm used to it, and Thomas can afford it."

"So, why now? All the promise dealing?" Georgia asked.

"They were using the creative energy to fuel a spell that would protect the area it encompassed from negative energy. Awesome idea but the price is too high."

"I agree," Billy said grimly.

"I am really glad you said that. The spell…it would have been really strong protection. Saved a lot of lives, kept a lot of the nasties out."

"Like you said, the price was too high," Billy replied. "We'll just keep on doing it the way we always have. By ripping out one villainous throat at a time." Georgia nodded emphatically.

"I guess I'd better contact Murphy," I said. "She's probably climbing the walls right now. If I don't let her know what's going on, she'll be after my head."

"This Murphy, she is a friend of yours?" Varya asked.

"Lieu—Sergeant Karrin Murphy. A very good friend of mine. You'll like her. She's good people."

"A police officer who knows about all this?" she asked, waving her hand to encompass my apartment, the wards, my lab, and Bob. "You trust her a good deal."

"With more than my life," I said quietly.

"I very much wish to meet her, then."

"You will. Just…she gets…intense when there's supernatural crime going on. But no dead bodies this time, so hopefully the old terrorist-and-gas-leak will cover everything."

"What happened there, Harry?" Billy asked. "I saw the pictures on the internet. It really does look like a bomb went off. A big one. The building was practically cut in half. Windows up and down the block were shattered. If there hadn't been a construction yard across the street, it could have been a lot worse."

"Yeah…"

"Archdemons are some scary stuff."

"That…wasn’t the archdemon."

"He was protecting me," Varya told them. 

They exchanged glances, then looked at me. They understood. All too well. They had that same dark tendency to throw everything out the window that I did if their mate was threatened. And how dangerous it was for those around them, for themselves. It was one more step to the animal taking over.

"No wonder you were so relieved when we told you no one had died," Georgia said softly. "You thought you had killed them."

"Then I'm glad we came to give you the good news," Billy said staunchly. 

Bless Billy, I thought to myself. He was loyal above and beyond.

"I guess we should get going," Georgia said, getting to her feet. "You sound like you have a busy day today."

"Yeah, and I have to get my staff back from Thomas. And the—"

"And the what?"

"Nothing. It's not important."

Billy hoisted himself up, snatched three doughnuts out of the box, and they left with admonitions to contact Karrin and get some rest.

"I guess I'd better get showered," I sighed after seeing them out and parting the wards for them. "I think Thomas left his keys here so we should be able to use his Hum-mah-mah-mah-mah…" When I'd turned from the door I encountered Varya in a full on body stretch, arms up over her head, slender fingers clawing towards the ceiling, chest thrust forward, long legs elegantly braced against the coffee table. The shirt rode up her frame.

She wasn't wearing any underwear either.

I almost dropped my coffee mug.

Stretch completed, she seemed to ooze into the couch, utterly relaxed.

"Harry?"

"Nn-hnh?" Speech was still a little beyond me. Namely because I was still wrapping my head around the fact that all that was all _mine_.

"Why is your coat in the fireplace?" she asked, running her fingers through her hair to drag it out of her face, then languidly leaning forward to get a doughnut from the box.

I set my coffee mug down on the nearest available surface and leaped, scooping her up over my shoulder and doing my best caveman impersonation, hauling her into my bedroom. Laughing, she didn't resist, along for the jouncing ride.

For once, everything thing I had to get done could wait on me.

  


 


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone call to Murphy, a phone call to Thomas, a little domesticity thrown in for flavor.

# Chapter Twenty-Nine

 

"Look, Karrin, I'm sorry, I didn't know my phone was out!"

"You blow up a _building_ and you don't think to tell me? After a high speed chase? Don't I have enough going on with the unpredictable crap that _isn't_ supposed to be a friend of mine?"

It was a few hours later, after Varya and I had…uh…

Then we showered and dressed and took Thomas' Hummer to the nearest payphone. Judging by how Varya had looked when she got out of the shower, she felt the cold. A lot. Put your eye out a lot. Her teeth had chattered a bit but she hadn't complained. We'd taken a moment to warm each other up.

The phone was one of a dying breed. This one was outside of a corner mart that resisted change. They still sold penny candy in big glass jars behind the counter, too.

First I'd checked my messaging service, which had become a lot more fun since it became fully automated. Tons of messages from Murphy and Billy. One concerned from Michael.

The first person I called was Karrin Murphy, Sergeant, Special Investigations. She'd once been Lieutenant Murphy, and in command of SI. But…well, Dresden happens. 

She was spitting mad. Surprise, surprise.

"Things happened! I wasn't in a position to give you a report!"

Varya snorted.

I mouthed "stop that" at her.

"Look, the Russian story is working, right?" I continued. "And the guys in the SUVs all got their memories back, right? You can tell them that the danger is past, the Russians have left the country, and all is right with the world."

"That's not the point, Harry. We've been over this! You are supposed to keep me in the loop!"

"And I told you there has been a lot going on. Look, Murph, you know I would have told you once I could have. And I am. Right now. I was not deliberately cutting you out. I honestly got wrapped up in someone-thing. Wrapped up in something."

A heavy sigh. "Tell me what else I need to know." 

Even though she was no longer in charge of SI, most of them still looked to her as their leader. Her demotion had been for political reasons, but it was inevitable. She'd outlasted every other person put in as head of SI, and unexplainable crime files had plummeted under her watch. 

But it was a dead end position, meant to usher the individual out of the force without outright firing them. SI didn't exist to thoroughly investigate and solve the unusual and possibly supernatural crimes that left very real world dead bodies. SI existed to come up with plausible stories to explain the unusual and possibly supernatural crimes that left very real world dead bodies. One of the men under her command had gotten a little too close to the special in Special Investigations and blamed Murphy for it. An irrational response born from the anger of being frightened silly. The weasel had since then moved to Internal Affairs and made it his mission to destroy Murph. He was real close to doing it, too. 

Just like most of the rest of humanity, the police and their bosses the taxpayers did not want to know.

She still considered them her men, her responsibility. If she found out I was deliberately withholding information (again) that impacted her ability to take care of them there would be hell to pay (also again).

"What I did…it terminated a project that John Marcone has been working on for a long time, and invested a great deal in. He is going to come gunning for me hard unless I can figure out an angle that will allow him to not put a horse's head in my bed."

"I'll tip off O.C. that he had a deal get cut short by unexpected competition. They'll watch him. What else?"

"A lot of artistic types are going to start dying." She immediately started protesting. "I know but there's nothing anyone can do about it!" 

I explained to her about the promise dealers and how the deals were burning the artists life up like flash paper. There was an archdemon mentioned in there somewhere. It was skirting close to breaking a promise for full disclosure I had made to her years ago, but it wasn't my story to tell. 

"That's like…assisted suicide," Murphy said, almost desperately. "Did they know they were going to die early from it?"

"I'm sure it was in the contract somewhere; the more you take advantage of the product, the faster you burn out. But when you're in the throes of creating, who thinks about fine print?"

"You sound like you know a little about it."

I thought about when I was making Little Chicago, my bracelet, my blasting rod. 

"Yeah, I can understand why they might push themselves."

"Are you sure about this, Harry?" she asked. "What about the church? What about Father Forthill?"

Murph wasn't exactly a devout Catholic, but she had wielded _Amoracchius_ briefly. It gave her perspective. 

"I don’t know. It's out of my field of expertise, but I know someone who knows a lot about it, and she said that they're lost. They wanted it, they chose it, they used it. Now they have to pay for it. Downside of free will."

"How do I explain this one? Vapors? Brainwaves?" It was rhetorical. She didn't expect me to solve her problems for her, she was just venting a bit. "Some sort of artist virus? Craybola?"

"I'm sorry, Murph. By the time I knew what was going on, most of the deals had been made. But there won't be any more."

"That's something, anyway. Look, there was no evidence you were at the Museum, and no evidence it was you involved in the high speed chase. Keep it that way, okay? I'll see what I can find out about what Marcone's going to do. You tell me about the things on the demon front."

"Deal."

"Not a good choice of words, Harry."

"Sorry. And, Murph…"

"Yeah?"

"There's…someone I want you to meet. When this is all over."

"Oh yeah? You finally get a girlfriend?"

I eyed Varya, who was studying the bright tropical posters in the storefront of a nearby travel agency.

"I think I might have, actually."

"That's—that's great, Harry. I can't wait to meet her."

I was afraid of that. That little stammer, that hesitation.

Things between Murph and I had been steadily growing from complicated to a pile of crazy straws spun by a psycho Rumpelstiltskin on crack. When she was ready for something, I wasn't. When I was, she wasn't. When we both were, generally there were magical beasties trying to kill us, giving us time to talk ourselves out of it.

"Really, Harry. I mean that. I hope she makes you happy."

"Hell's bells, Murph, you have no idea."

"Although I may have to run her in for a psych. She thinks you're good boyfriend material she may be a danger to herself and others."

"Not a chance. They may cure her and then where will I be?"

"Alone, like the loser you are. Let me guess, she's the expert on demons you've been talking to."

"You could say that."

"She… _isn't_ a demon, is she?"

"No!"

"With the company you keep, I had to ask."

"Knock it off, will you?"

"Not a chance. Someone has to keep your ego in check."

"What ego? You guys never let me build any up!"

"For a reason, chuckles. Keep me in the damned loop, Harry. And fix your phone!"

"Bye," I said, but she'd already hung up.

I hung up the phone, then immediately took it out of the cradle again, pumping in more quarters.

"Harry?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"You're the only one that calls me from a pay phone."

"Right, that caller I.D. thing. That's still creepy, you know. How are you?"

"I'm fine."

"I have your car."

"I have your staff and the lacquer," Thomas replied. "Your place?"

"Might as well."

"How…are you? How is she?"

"We're actually pretty good, bro."

"Just pretty good?"

"Phenomenal, and that's all you're getting, you lech."

"I have to live vicariously through you. You know I'm always home alone with my dog and cat, a hopeless loser with no social life or women around, my only companion a horny spirit in a skull…oh…wait…"

"I am hanging up now."

"You better not have hurt my car."

"It's fine. It's…uh…just fine…"

"What did you do, Harry."

"Nothing! I haven't done anything to it! Intentionally…"

"Empty night, Harry. If you screwed up my car again—"

I hung up with a grin.

"Back to my place?" I said. Had a nice ring to it.

"I need to stop at a store before we go home."

The fact that she called it home was not lost on me. Or her. I saw her bite her lip, but she didn't correct herself.

"Okay. There's one not far."

We climbed back into the Hummer and I drove her to the nearby grocery store. Taking a risk, I went inside with her. It was really…normal. She even got one of those carts that always had the wheel trapped in its own personal hurricane. I tried to remember the last time I had done some real shopping and couldn't. And I don't think I'd ever done this kind of thing with one of my rare girlfriends. Usually I just picked up some bare essentials and Molly brought over supplemental groceries.

Molly…explaining Varya to her would be interesting. She'd left on Friday morning and my biggest plans for weekend had been to try and rearrange my lab. She comes back on Sunday and I've pissed off Gentleman Johnny Marcone, blown up a building, made friends with Puck, got back on speaking terms with Thomas, incited an archdemon to go after my head, made a fallen Host my new girlfriend, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Explaining would be very interesting.

My apprentice had developed a crush on me at a young age, and was convinced it was the real thing. I was not. The thought was just weird. Almost incestuous. I was that screwball family uncle that nobody really talked about. When she'd first become my apprentice, she'd thought I would be teaching her _everything_. A pitcher of cold water informed her of her mistake.

Thoughts for another time. Molly wouldn't be back until that evening. I would deal with it then. Varya had to be easier to live with than Morgan. At least I wouldn't walk in on her and Molly being held at bay by Mouse because they'd tried to kill each other. Repeatedly. 

That had been a rough patch for Mouse. Poor guy. I added a couple of soup bones to the cart.

Varya picked up a set of hair cutting scissors, apparently called shears, not scissors for some reason, and a few other oddments. And food. A lot of food. Apparently I didn't have much left and she had noticed. She asked me my favorites and selected accordingly. Easy to prepare fresh ingredients that didn't have a lot of cooking involved were best, considering my only cooking surface was a camp stove.

She did stock up on a lot of Coke. Didn't even ask. That got definite points.

We checked out, she paid for everything much to my chivalrous chagrin, and we wheeled everything out to the Hummer. Stopped at a Radio Shack and got a new "vintage, retro" rotary phone. Then we drove uneventfully back to my place.

Laughing at something she'd said, we unloaded the backs into my apartment and squared everything away. 

We ended up making love on my couch waiting for Thomas to show up.

All through this I was steadfastly ignoring the persistent little part of my brain that was telling me it was too good to last.

I knew that.

That was why I was milking it for all it was worth. When everything fell apart, and it was going to, and I was left standing in the ashes, I would have this one morning all to myself. This one domestic, normal, just a guy just a girl morning. 

The universe could at least give me that.

  


 


	30. Chapter Thirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There it is.
> 
> That inevitable "too good to last" bit.

# Chapter Thirty

Two hours had gone by and I was starting to get concerned. No word from Thomas. A call to his apartment had resulted in his machine picking up, and he wasn't answering his cell.

Aaand there it was. The feeling that the bottom had just dropped out. I was wondering where it had been, it was overdue.

"Anything?" Varya asked, handing me a Coke and sitting down next to me. At my insistence, she was wearing one of my t-shirts that said, "It's not the size of the wand, it's the magic it wields." A Christmas present from Billy and the rest of the gaming group. She filled it out rather nicely.

"Nothing," I told her, taking the Coke and draining half of it. 

"Would you like me to see if I can get the agency to track the rental?"

"No, they might report it stolen." I thought for a minute. Marcone and Ilyvich both had some impressive axes to grind with us, even without the whole ongoing immortal throwdown. While Marcone would play by the rules and go after me directly, Ilyvich wouldn't. Demons were funny like that.

"What kind of resources does Ilyvich usually have in place?"

"That depends on his goals in any given location. Apparently his deal with Mr. Marcone impressed his superiors enough they gave him use of the anosioplasm, but it taxes him to use it. He will be weakened, particularly as he also just had a fight with me."

"I saw him," I said softly. "You tore him a new one."

"I inconvenienced him," she sniffed. "But he had kept talking about what he was going to do to you and I just…" she raised her hands, shrugging helplessly. "Snapped."

"Why did you cut us out?" I asked her. "You knew Thomas and I were both prepared to support you."

"And I was not prepared to allow it," she said, the defenselessness falling away, replaced by her cool firmness. "That has not changed. I have seen what you are capable of, Harry. What you would have to do to defeat him…it would be too much for you."

"If you know what I'm capable of then you know that I could absolutely put a hurt on him," I told her. 

"Yes," she said. "You could. And it would be too much for you."

I realized she wasn't talking about sheer magical power. She was talking about things I was willing to sacrifice in order to get the job done. Like my conscience.

"When can I start expecting him to come after me with his special get-to-know-you friends?" I asked.

"Yesterday. The instant we said the words. Somehow he always knows."

"Spiffy," I said sourly.

"I am sorry, Harry…"

"Don't," I told her, taking her hand. "I knew what I was getting into. Hell's bells, you made it more than abundantly clear how bad it was going to get. My eyes are open, and have been. If the worst happens…you need to know that this was my choice."

She only nodded, looking down, a curtain of hair obscuring her face.

I understood. Her brain would be telling her that I was a big boy, capable of making my own decisions and I had eagerly signed on the dotted line after being given full disclosure. But that wouldn't help if she had to cut off my head. 

"And if that does happen, are you prepared to do what needs to be done?" I asked her.

"Yes," she said, not raising her eyes. "I am. It is one of the reasons I fought against us so hard. I will kill you, Harry."

Not a reassuring statement, but it was supposed to be. Better than the other way around.

Wrenching my mind back to the subject of Thomas, I dragged my fingers through my hair. That made her peek up at me. I grinned, despite everything.

"As soon as we get two minutes to rub together, I'll be your styling dummy," I told her. "Keyword there being 'dummy'."

"Then let us find Thomas and get things resolved."

"That's your motivation? Find my brother, forestall Marcone, defeat Ilyvich, all so you can cut my hair in peace?"

"You have your priorities, I have mine," she said loftily.

The phone rang.

"Thomas?" I asked, snatching it up.

"It's Murphy."

Anxiety thudded a fist into my gut.

"What is it."

"We found a late model dark blue Lincoln Navigator on Ashland. Rented out to one Varya Nadeanenko. It matches the description of the vehicle in the high speed last night. Harry…someone had rigged it with a car bomb, I think. I've never seen anything like it. There's nothing left but the frame."

"Was there a body?" I asked.

"No. It was too hot. If there had been someone in there, they would have been cremated. They're…sifting for teeth. You know about this SUV? This Varya Nadeanenko?" She was in full police mode, just the facts, ma'am.

"Yes, but she's here with me."

"Is she your studious demon expert?"

"She is."

"Never knew you were into the quiet librarian types."

"She's not a librarian."

"Harry…you're not shtupping a nun, are you?"

"Not now, Murph. They didn't find anyone?"

"No. I thought if it wasn't her it'd been stolen."

"And there's nothing left of any body?"

"Harry, there's not much left of the _car_. It was like it was nuked."

"Hellfire."

She just grunted, filing away the knowledge. "Don't tell me Thomas was in there when it blew, Harry." She wasn't asking nice, she was demanding.

"He wasn't. But Thomas had been driving it."

"That's why you answered the way you did. You knew something like this could have happened."

"Yeah, but he's alive," I told her.

"You've heard from him?"

"He's alive," I insisted.

"Harry…"

"Murph, I'm not basing this on some stubborn male ego thing. I'm not saying he's not in danger, I'm not saying he's not hurt. I'm saying he's alive. It would take a lot more than a car bomb to get him. He's the son of the King of the White Court. He must deal with half a dozen attempted assassinations a day. I'm thinking he bailed way before it went off, and they were waiting for him."

"Who was? Marcone?"

"I don't think that Marcone is behind the trigger, that our demon pal is, but Marcone would have told him all about me. John-Boy told him outright he wasn't to provoke me. Marcone knows if Thomas died, and I thought he was even remotely involved, I would go after everything he has ever touched. I would burn so much of his little barony to the ground he would possibly never recover. And then I'd go after him."

She was quiet for a long, long time. I thought my phone might have fritzed out on me again.

"Murph?"

"I'm here. Harry, do you have any idea how scary you sounded just then?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You just matter-of-factly told me that you would destroy Marcone. _Marcone_ , if you even suspected he was involved some way in Thomas' death. You just told an officer of the law that you would murder him."

I sighed. Varya put her hand on my shoulder, and I covered it with my own. 

"Sorry if it's dramatic, but you know it's true, Murph. I'd do the same thing if it were you out there."

"Harry, you're asking me to ignore your plan of revenge fueled vigilantism. I can't do that."

"No, I told you that to show you why I'm not planning anything like that. But, in all the years you have known me, I have never, not once, told you to stay out of my way. I've worked around you, lied to you, misled you, yeah, but never outright told you to butt out. But if I'm—" I stopped, swallowing hard. "If I'm wrong, and Thomas is…well, if I'm wrong. Consider yourself told."

"I won't be able to do that. And you know that, from all the years you have known me."

"I'll keep it out of your area as much as possible, but if Marcone is implicated, you're going to have me as a Warden of the Council _and_ the White Court launching against him. Red Court war be damned. Even if I'm the only wizard out here. Marcone's a big fish in a little pond here in Chicago, but he will receive one hell of a rude wake-up call if he thinks he's the same thing among the Accords signatories. I'm telling you, Murph. You don't want none."

"I'm going to do you a favor, Harry," Murph said, voice hard. "I'm going to forget we had this conversation for the time being. I'm going to help out the guys trying to figure out why the car was bombed and by whom. I'll even let you know if we figure anything out. But if you think I'm going to let you go off half-cocked and start tossing firestorms around, you obviously don't know me as well as you think you do."

"Murph, this is my brother. He's the only family I've got and I will not let some bastard demon use him against me."

"I know you're going to find him, like you did before," she said. "You took me along with you because you knew I'd have your back. You don't get to second guess me anymore, Harry. If I don't hear from you by the end of the day I am going to assume you went after him by yourself, with the intention of breaking the law to get him back. You want to go after the demon, fine. Have at. But you keep it out of my sight and you even _touch_ Marcone and you're in for a world of hurt. Your little librarian piece of ass won't be able to help you when I come to cuff you."

"Are you finished?" I asked frostily. She paused, knowing she had crossed a line, but her blood was up and she wouldn't back down.

" _Don't_ make me remember this conversation." The phone slammed down on her end.

I set the receiver back in the cradle and just sat there for a little while, staring out at nothing.

A demon had my brother. A demon had my _brother_.

Varya stood up and went into the bedroom. I sensed more than saw her exchange glances with Mouse, who immediately came and took her place, sitting next to me on the floor, leaning against my legs. 

It wasn't the first time Thomas had been taken, but before it had been more about who he was than because of something I had dragged him into. And I'd had enemy-of-my-enemies types in play. 

She came back out, my t-shirt replaced by a grey long-sleeved ribbed sweater, and the ballet flats she'd worn while we'd been out had exchanged for another pair of riding boots. The Cobra and its holder I had managed to salvage hung from her belt. Instead of the pouches, I saw her slide a flat compact in her back pocket, kind of like a cigarette case.

I needed to move. I needed to go downstairs, into my lab, and perform the tracking spell I'd used before when Thomas had been taken. Our pentacle amulets, given to us by our mother, worked just fine finding each other. 

Pushing up her sleeve, Varya reached into the fireplace and pulled out my duster, then disappeared with it into the bathroom.

Get downstairs, perform the spell, go get Thomas. Yeah. Go, legs.

Then Varya was standing before me, holding up my duster in one hand, which she had cleaned of the ashes and soot. It still smelled strongly of wood smoke. In the other hand she had my Warden cloak.

"Your armor, wizard," she said softly. "Your banner."

"Varya…"

"It is over, Harry. Now it's time to return to the world and our places in it. It's what we are."

And that was why I was immobile, inert. Once I stood up, once I pulled the pendant out from under my shirt and went downstairs, the living daydream would be over. Again. 

I'd wanted it to be her.

It never would be. She'd been right all along.

She would always have to go after Ilyvich. He would always be a plague, a menace, and she was the only one who could shut him down permanently. She and I would never be we, never be us.

Unless I helped her end him now.

I stood up and took my duster, sliding my arms in it, then tossed the cloak around my shoulders.

She was back to the same cold inscrutability she'd had when she'd first walked into my office. But I knew she was doing what I was, cutting out all the good things we had and cauterizing the wound. Otherwise we'd be distracted, and that could get us or someone else killed.

One way or another, now we were in the end game. The final chapters of her and my story together.

Would it be her riding off into the sunset, or happily ever after?

With my track record, the answer wasn't real hard to figure out.

  


 


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And this is where it all comes crashing down.
> 
> Oh, come on, you knew it was just a matter of time. This is Harry Dresden.

# Chapter Thirty-One

"Bob, wake up. I need to use Little Chicago."

The skull was silent, but I saw a sullen little flicker of orange in the eye sockets.

"Bob. Now."

"I'm not talking to you."

"What do you mean you're not talking to me?"

"You _said_ you weren't going to be belly-bumping last night."

"What are you talking about?" I practically shouted. 

"I thought you were going to wait for me, Boss," he said pitifully. "You hurt my feelings. You know how much I wanted to watch."

I leaned forward, my nose nearly pressing into the cavity on the skull. 

"I don't have _time_ for this, Bob."

"Jeez, Harry, what's up with you?"

"Ilyvich has Thomas."

"That's not good. Archdemons don’t like hybrids like Thomas."

"You think he knows what Thomas is?" I asked, spinning back around to the model. Varya had remained behind me, by the stairs.

"At first sight, Boss."

"Get out of the skull and watch my back until the spell is complete, then get back inside."

"You are _so_ cranky when stuff like this happens. You think you'd be used to it by now," he said, rising up out of the skull in an orange cloud and hovering over my shoulder.

I pulled the amulet off from around my neck and wound the chain around my right hand, projecting myself into the model once more.

Michigan Avenue, facing north. I performed the spell and the pentacle immediately began pulling towards me, and a little to the left. This was where it was nice to have Little Chicago. I'd perfected being able to jump around the map by picturing the location in my head. Saved me a lot of leaning out car windows with a shoe or something dangling from my fist driving around town.

I jumped to Oakwoods Cemetery. Same thing. Calumet Park. North east. Adjust and jump again.

In this manner I found myself standing in front of an abandoned tenement building amidst a lot of other abandoned tenement buildings in South Chicago. It had taken minutes as opposed to possible hours by car. 

Gang territory. I remembered being here, getting the ingredients for the model. Saying I stood out more than I usually did was an understatement. Most of the places around there were drug houses of one sort or another, and a lot of violence came from here. The urban renewal project had this area on its slate, but as it was far from the tourist areas, it was pretty far down on the list.

It was a few blocks away from the University of Chicago campus Billy and Georgia attended, and an occult book shop I wasn't welcome at anymore. They'd learned quick that the campus was protected by something that tolerated none of their shenanigans. Crime there had dropped forty percent thanks to the Alphas. But even they could only do so much.

The building itself was unremarkable, a battered three story walkup, covered in graffiti. Trash, debris, and stripped car chassis seemed to be the major design elements of the place. 

Slowly I approached it, wary for any sort of wards or alarms. 

"Boss…I wouldn't," Bob said from above me. "There is some pretty bad feels coming from that spot. And before you ask, yeah, the infernal kind."

"Then that's it."

The pentacle was nearly parallel to the ground, pointing straight at the building when it started moving.

I watched as it slowly tracked left about an inch or so, then jerked, angling down. Thomas was moving fast. I wouldn't be able to see what was around him more clearly without getting closer, and I couldn't get closer without possibly triggering something bad. Little Chicago showed me what it had been like when I'd made it. The only way I could see things in real time was to be within a certain radius of my target.

Breaking the spell, I lurched away from the table, putting the necklace back on.

"Spell's concluded, Bob."

"Gotcha," he said, diving back into his skull. "Be careful, m'kay? You still owe me a bunch of books and a movie."

"Have I ever let you down before?" I asked. "And where did we put the holy water ampules?"

"On your left, third shelf up from the bottom, halfway down, behind the paintball gun."

"I knew I should have gotten more ammo for that thing made," I muttered, rooting through until I found the box of thin glass ampules, the kind that they used to use for injections. I had bought a gross of empty ones and filled them from a barrel of holy water I'd asked Father Forthill to bless. It had been the first time I'd met the priest.

"Does holy water lose its efficacy after a while?"

"No," Varya answered. "So long as it is stored in an airtight vessel so it will not evaporate or get contaminated."

"That's my job!" Bob complained.

"My apologies, spirit."

"I like her, Harry. Polite, respectful, and a bod that just won't stop. Can we keep her?"

I stuffed a handful of the ampules into a padded envelope, pushed in some cotton after them, and then stuck the whole thing into my pocket.

"What else do we have that's anti-infernal around here?" 

"You used up what you had left on the mold demons," he said.

"You have me," Varya said. "You are not alone, Harry."

I looked at her. She had her Cobra, but no other obvious weapons. And it wasn't no Cobra that had left those gaping slashes on Ilyvich. I didn't press it.

"Let me call Murph back, and then we'll be on our way."

Once I'd actually gotten back into motion, I'd mostly gotten over what Murphy had said during our tiff. She was right, as usual. I didn't need to go tearing off blowing up Marcone's businesses. That wouldn't be constructive, and it probably wouldn't get my brother back. It would just be destroying chunks of Chicago. And she needed to be kept informed so she could do her job.

"Sergeant Murphy."

"Murph, it's me. Listen, I have a line on Thomas, he's in the South Side, on Burnham. I'm heading over there to see what's up. I don't think there's any of Marcone's goons there but I can't be sure."

"Marcone has holed himself up at his gym slash bordello," she said crisply. "He hasn't moved. He's probably figured out that this demon is going after you and doesn't want any part of it. Bad business. He'll go after you on his own, with his own strength."

"Yeah."

"So you're not going to go and nuke it from orbit? Only way to be sure?"

"Not yet," I said airily.

"Not funny."

"Nobody appreciates me."

"We found your staff and some sort of painting about a quarter of a block away from the burned vehicle. I think they were tossed out the window. Thomas must have known something was up. I snagged them. Technically they're not evidence, yet, as I'm the only one who put them together with the SUV. It wouldn't do them any good anyway."

"You are an angel," I said fervently. Then I glanced at Varya, who gave me a look that was dryer than dry. 

"Burnham, you said?"

"Yeah, sit this one out, Murph. Unless you feel up to wielding the sword again."

"No…I don't think so. That's not what it's for, anyway."

"Okay."

"But I'm not going to sit on my hands while some damned maniac is kidnapping citizens, either."

"I see what you did there, but fine," I sighed. "I don't have time to argue with you."

"What do I bring?"

"That's why I told you not to come. Unless you have a pocket priest or a large black Russian agnostic Knight of the Sword hanging around I don't think there's a lot you're going to be able to do. He shrugs off bullets like they're ping-pong balls and he's at least a sorcerer."

"Of course he is. I'm guessing that aikido isn't going to do much good, either."

"Just know it's probably going to get noisy. Try to contain it, keep people from wandering in to see what's going on."

"I might be able to do something…a tip off about a gang war getting started…What about Lara Raith?"

"Tell her. And tell her that I have no idea what kind of condition Thomas is going to be in. Better be ready to send in the navy again."

"I will."

"I'll be by soon to pick up my staff and the painting."

Boy howdy did that ever earn me a look.

"They'll be waiting, and Harry…"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry. About what I said."

"Forget about it."

"Done! I'll see you at the cordon."

I hung up.

"Painting?" Varya asked.

I picked the phone back up. "Sorry, gotta make another phone call. Can't talk right now."

"Executive Priority Health, how may I help you?" a perky female voice answered.

"I need to speak to your boss."

"I'm sorry! If you have a problem with our services, I'm sure I can direct you to someone who can help you."

"Your boss."

"Ms. Demeter is unavailable," she said uncertainly. 

"No, your real boss. Let me talk to John Marcone."

"Sir…I…"

"Tell him its Harry Dresden."

"Yes, sir…one—one moment pleased." The little girls that worked at Executive Priority Health were all very cute, very fit, very prostitutes, and very unsure of how to handle me. At least this one had apparently been told that if I called, to forward the call instead of giving me the runaround.

"Dresden, I knew I would hear from you soon."

"Did you have anything to do with Ilyvich taking my brother."

"No."

"That's all I needed to know. Bye, John."

"I will be settling our score at another time," he said. "But I suppose I might as well tell you, it won't be until after the war is over. You are one of the only things effective at protecting Chicago and I intend to keep it that way. But once I have this city firmly under my control and protection, from all manner of individuals, you will no longer be needed. Do we understand each other?"

"Perfectly, John. And as always, I'm ready to dance when you are." I hung up.

"Painting?" Varya asked.

"Sorry, gotta go find Thomas," I said, standing and heading for the door. "Can't talk right now."

  


 


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, they find Thomas, anyway.

# Chapter Thirty-Two

True to her word, Murph had my staff and the lacquer waiting for us at the police station. The lacquer had been wrapped in some sort of twelve-million count Egyptian cotton bedsheets that cost more than my car when it was new. I assumed Thomas had done it. 

The incredibly bored and suspicious desk sergeant handed it over to me after asking for three different kinds of identification. Apparently my Chicago PD consultant card wasn't enough.

From the activity in the station, it was pretty obvious that something was going on, but no one was likely to fill me in even if I asked. At best, they viewed me as a delusional crackpot with an obsessive knowledge of the occult in Chicago which made me something of an asset in the more unusual cases. At worst, they saw me as a clear-headed con man bilking the police department out of consultancy fees and putting people in danger with my horse hooey. There were a few in SI who had a kind of sideways respect for me, but only two or three actually took me at my word and saw me as a decent guy.

I tried not to let it get to me, piling it all under the see no evil, hear no evil umbrella. 

Varya was waiting for me in Thomas' Hummer. I'd shown her where we were going on a map and let her drive. My head was too much of a mess to think about getting behind the wheel. When she pulled away from the station, she was moving quickly, but still well within legalities. Deftly she handled the midday Sunday traffic, and as it was another beautiful fall day, there was quite a bit. Letting her drive had been the right choice.

We hadn't said much since she'd handed me my coat and cloak. I guess we both figured there wasn't much to say. We were beyond hoping for something better. Hope had finally packed it in and left the building. Now we were the only ones who could make it happen for us.

Ilyvich died, today, or that was it.

Pretty simple math, even for me, a high school dropout.

Other priorities. She made her way to Burnham, the Hummer standing out like I would at a midget convention. There was some surreptitious police activity on the outskirts of South Side, a few cruisers here and there, no lights on yet. They were preparing the cordon. Murphy had apparently found the right gang task member to talk to.

I'll say this about the Darkhallow. At least it had happened at midnight on Halloween after putting most of the city around it to sleep. This was in broad daylight on a lovely Sunday afternoon. Some supernatural entities just did not understand the word "discretion".

I rolled down the window and leaned out, my pendant extended. It leaned steadily. I was ready to call out course corrections, but there weren't any. It seemed that Thomas was at least still near the building if not in it.

The abandoned apartment buildings in this particular area were mostly empty. The squatters who lived here had a finely tuned sense for danger, and for when it was more than they could handle. A less than charitable part of me hoped the gangbangers would see Ilyvich as a threat and go after him. Let the scum take care of each other. But that wasn't nice.

"You get anything yet?" I asked her.

"No. I have to be somewhat close in order to feel his presence."

"Let me know," I said. 

I recognized where we were, about half a block from the building I'd found in Little Chicago. 

"Pull in there," I said, pointing to one of those corrugated aluminum sheds you could get at big chain hardware stores. It wasn't in the best of shape, but I figured it would at least hide the Hummer. Once we got out of this, he wouldn't appreciate it being returned stripped of anything and everything valuable. They wouldn't steal it outright, too flashy. But they would devour it like a herd of metal munching piranha.

Once she stopped the car, we got out and wrestled the half-off doors behind it. 

"Hold this," I told her, handing over the pentacle. She took it like it was made of glass.

Then I put my hand on crazily tilted doors and murmured " _Obscurata."_

The shack was unchanged to our eyes, but it would be mostly ignored by anyone else. Unless you were specifically looking for it, you would just look right past it. Without help to hide it, like mist or fog, it was still visible but the veil would encourage people to ignore it. Illusion magic was not my forte, and I wanted to try and still conserve my energy for the coming battle. Illusions were Molly's thing. 

"Thanks," I told her, and she handed the pentacle back. As soon as I touched it the pendant snapped out to the right, still moving, but not as fast as it had been before.

Without a word we both started moving in that direction until we were standing in front of the tenement I had found in Little Chicago.

"He is in there," she said, staring up at the third floor.

"So is Thomas. How do you want to play this?"

She extended her right hand, and light so bright I had to close my eyes coalesced around it. Once it had shimmered down to a manageable level, what was left was a bright silver longsword, with a sweeping guard, elegant with simple scrollwork.

"That's handy," I noted.

"Demon killer," she said. "My bit of infused hagioplasm. So I can destroy Dmitri."

"Oh."

"Stay here for a moment," she said, striding forward. Once she got to the front doors, she did one of the prettiest side kicks I'd ever seen, slamming the doors inward.

Then she disappeared in a fireball of bloody reds and oranges. I yelled and snapped my shield up, but I needn't have bothered, the ten feet or so round explosion died away quickly, and my shield was only showered with a bit of dirt. But I had recognized that particular brand of fire, hellfire. 

At the end of it, Varya stood there, unharmed, pacing over the threshold out of the cloud of smoke. Her clothes hadn't even gotten singed. As soon as she passed the smoldering lintel half a dozen more spells went off, all designed to fold, spindle, and mutilate a certain wizard if he'd been stupid enough to march in. 

"It is safe now," she called from within.

"Hell's bells," I muttered. Jamming my pentacle back on, I put my staff in my right hand and gamely went forward.

"Do you want to split up or stay together?" she asked.

"Stay together. Splitting up worked out so well last time," I said pointedly. She gave me an embarrassed little smile.

"Harry," she said, smile dying. "Just like the last time we encountered him, there is a very real possibility he may kill me, or wound me to the point I require healing again. It is a possibility every he and I contest."

"I know," I said, peering into the dark. "And I don't want to talk about it."

"But we must. You cannot let my being hurt or killed pull you into doing what you know is wrong. There are mortals in this area, although not in this building. You will destroy them if you unleash against Dmitri."

"I'll keep a lid on it, Varya. I won't get possessed."

"Is that what you think my warning to you is about?" she asked, hurt flashing in her eyes. 

Oh. Great job, Dresden.

"Varya…"

She shook her head. "It is unimportant. Let me go up the stairs first."

And off she went.

More spells went off as she ascended, but these were nothing more than little harassment spells. Anything bigger would probably bring the building down. They went off so fast I could only see what a few of them were, slowing, itching, and one nasty little madness spell that would definitely have knocked me for a loop until I got a grip on it.

When we reached the third floor, the spells stopped. It felt like everything else did, too. Sound, movement, everything still as a grave and twice as silent. Doors lined the left side of a narrow hallway stretched out in front of us, the right was interspersed every so often with a broken window, letting dirty sunlight in. Even on the third floor there were bars on the windows, and the shadows they threw made it feel like we were in some sort of asylum for the insane.

And nothing moved. Not a rat, not a cockroach. No rustling in the shadows, no sound coming in through the windows. The graffiti on the walls was in garish highlight, the colors looming in madhouse hues, the jagged edges of the spray-painted lines in sharp relief. 

The sound of uneven footsteps. The floorboards creaked beneath them. It came from a room somewhere close, one of the doors on the right.

"Can you sense anymore magics up here?" she asked me.

"No wards or trap spells. But be careful anyway."

"Yes."

"And let me handle this door," I told her. "No magic doesn't mean safe. A few folks I know are fond of using claymores as a deterrent."

"Then wouldn't it be more prudent for me to try it?"

"Not if Ilyvich put them in. They'd tear through you."

She opened her mouth to protest, but just closed it again. I approached the door warily, staff up, shield ready to go with a thought.

Pressing my palm to the battered steel, I couldn’t feel anything on the other side of it, so I leaned close to it and Listened.

Frantic, ragged breathing. Rapid steps, jerky and uncertain up one side of the room. Stop. Repeat going back.

"Thomas," I called softly. 

The footsteps stopped.

"Harry…" It was Thomas' voice, but something was more than a little bit wrong. It was a harsh croak, like it took everything he had just to say it.

"Stay with me, bro. I'll be in there in a second. But I need to know if there are any traps on the other side of the door."

A long pause of silence.

"No…" It was like he was gargling acid. "No traps."

"Can you unlock this?" I asked her.

"Yes." 

I took a step back and her sword vanished from her hand as she reached into a back pocket for the flat case I'd seen her put there earlier that day. It felt like ten years ago.

"Harry, it's not locked."

"What?"

The knob turned easily, the door opened the barest crack.

Well, that left me more than a little confused, which almost immediately nosedived into anxiety. Thomas was not a prisoner, but he had stayed. 

"Watch my back?"

"Of course," she said, the light came again, the sword reappearing.

"This is making me very nervous," I told her. "When is Ilyvich going to strike?"

"He enjoys his cat and mouse games," she said, back to me, keeping watch on the hallway and stairs. "He will try to demoralize you and the strike at your weakest moment."

"What a guy," then I reached out and pushed the door open.

The apartment was a one-room flat, with broken doors for what I assumed were the bathroom and a closet. The room itself was filled with scattered remnants of broken furniture and the garbage brought in from a variety of squatters. The windows were still intact, but someone at some point in time had covered them in black paint. Some of it had been scraped or flaked off, making striations of light and dark in the room. 

They flickered over Thomas as he shambled back and forth, arms wrapped around himself in the dim light that filtered in from the blacked out window. 

"Thomas," I said, hurrying forward.

"Stop!"

I froze.

"What's wrong, man? Come on, let's get you out of here. Let's get you home."

No obvious wounds marked him anywhere. There was some blood streaking the torn white silk shirt he wore, but there were no injuries behind the gaping fabric. 

A bar of sunlight fell across his face, and I saw his eyes.

Silver and black surged across them, no iris, no sclera. The two colors did battle, one encroaching on the other only to be pushed back. It was like watching the tide roll in and out on a time lapse, only not that constant or steady.

"Thomas," I said in a low voice, shield ready. "What's going on."

"He…did something to me, Harry. He put something inside me." His back arched and he clutched his head with a strangled scream. "I tried to run! I couldn't—"

The door was pulled shut behind me. 

"Varya!"

"Help him, Harry!" she cried. Familiar, insidious laughter rolled through the hallway.

Swearing, I approached Thomas, staying in between him and the door.

"Is your brother enjoying his extra guest?" Ilyvich's voice came to me through the door. "Granted, it's a bit crowded in there now, but I'm sure they will become the best of friends."

"You bastard!" I yelled, reaching out for Thomas, who skittered away from me.

Ilyvich had put another demon inside of Thomas, an attempt at possession. From the technical aspect, it was easy enough given his fluid morality. But he already had a resident demon. 

I'd had no idea that such a thing could even be done. Now his vampiric White Court demon and the new whatsit were fighting inside of him. The resulting war was very likely going to kill him, and even if he survived, what was left of his soul would be shredded.

  


 


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demons suck. That is all.

# Chapter Thirty-Three

"Don't, Harry!" he gasped. "Don't touch me! I don't know—what that would do!"

"Varya! What do I do here?"

"Banishing ritual!"

"I don’t know what that would do to him!" It was a horrific fact for the White Court vampires that if their demons were ever incapacitated, so would the host, left as a mindless drooling husk until they died. So far as I knew their demons couldn't be banished, but 'so far as I knew' only went so far.

"Talk to him! Remind him of who he is!"

"Oh, _tovarichka_ , do you want to give him such false hope?" Ilyvich asked. "His brother is lost. All thanks to his meddling in affairs that did not concern him."

"Is this where it is to be?" she asked. Her voice was loud, speaking to air. Ilyvich hadn't shown himself yet. "This hovel? You have not chosen such a ruin in many years."

"I worked with what was available. My options were limited after Marcone declared our deal void and withdrew his support. I only want the wizard, Varya. We can wait for another time when neither of us are so distracted."

Thomas shrieked and dropped to his knees. I knelt next to him, putting my hand on his shoulder. He flinched away from me as if burned.

"You are Thomas Raith," I said. "You are the only surviving son of House Raith, you love Justine, and you are _my_ brother. Remember who you are!"

"You may not have them," Varya said quietly. "You know I will not let you have them."

"And you know your sweet tongue drips lies," Ilyvich replied. "It is only a matter of time before I deal with him as I did your previous lovers. What is he, number four, including the priest? Poor Snegurochka. Over a thousand years and only dared to love four men. The first three became mine. So will he. And his brother."

"Jus—Justine—" Thomas forced out before another scream, ripped out from the core of his being.

"Yes, Justine! Remember her, Thomas. How she felt against you, how much she loves you. How she looks, smells. She's waiting for you, man. Don't make me tell her you're not coming home."

"Kill you," he breathed, eyes going solid black. "Kill you, keep this body. Kill the trash inside it. Take it and be free."

"You need to exit the vehicle, asshole," I snarled back. "He's a one-seater."

He jumped on me. I didn't have time to get my shield up and went over backwards with a yell. His hands wrapped around my throat.

As I have noted, he was _strong._ His fingers closed around my neck and I wasn't sure if he'd snap it or crush my windpipe first. A few vital arteries were cut off. Blackness fuzzed my vision. A grating, breaking noise scrabbled inside my ears.

"You are _mine_ , Varya Nadeanenko." Ilyvich's voice had lost the loathsome smugness and now rang with wrath. "Your body is nothing to me, give it to as many as you will. But your heart belongs to _me._ "

"As if a creature like you could understand what having a heart means, Dmitri. Show yourself. Let us be done with this once and for all."

Somehow I managed to stick my staff under Thomas' arms, grabbing the end of it and twisting. It was enough to break his grip and I rolled away from him, my shield springing to life between us. Gasping and snorting, I felt my breath whistling in my throat. Swallowing was a lesson in pain. I was pretty sure he'd broken something kind of important in there.

"Thomas! Don't let it do this!" I managed to gag out, it was excruciating. But at least I was feeling it. Only the living feel pain. "You are stronger than this, dammit!"

He roared, lunging for me. 

" _Forzare!_ " 

"Perhaps it will be easier than I thought and his brother will kill him for me," Ilyvich was back to his oily smarminess. 

"That will never happen. They are both too strong."

Thomas slammed against the wall with a grunt, sliding to the floor. He crouched, looking up at me, snarling. 

"Don't make me do this," I pleaded with him, back on my feet, staff extended. Stars and stones, I never knew how much I took talking for granted until that moment. "Fight it, Thomas. _Fight it._ We have been through too much for you to let a piece of shit demon win, dammit!"

Silver rimmed the blackness, began contracting, pushing the inky darkness towards the center. He shook his head with a growl.

"Then I will up the ante," Ilyvich said. Vaguely I heard the thunder of more footsteps coming up the stairs.

"These are not your summoned!"

"No." He didn't sound happy. "My right to use the anosio was revoked when I lost the wealth of souls I had engineered."

"You bring mortals to this?" Varya demanded.

"As you did, my dear. Now you have a choice. Kill them, slaughter them though they are helpless before you, or give them the wizard."

"Varya?" I called out, watching Thomas.

"Help Thomas. I will keep them from you," she said through the door.

"But, they're mortal, you can't—"

"It is not an unforgivable sin, Harry," she reminded me. "And I will _not_ let them have either of you."

Thomas' head snapped up, and he bolted for the door, nearly ripping it off of his hinges. Varya, concentrating on the incoming people, felt the danger too late. He grabbed her from behind and slammed her to the floor, rolling on top of her. 

I heard inarticulate bellowing, realized it was me.

She shoved him off with little trouble, bounding back to her feet. He went sprawling across the floor. The silver was winning, and was latching on to the closest source of sustenance for strength. Just inside the doorway, she tried to angle herself to watch both him and the hall. 

Scrambling to his feet, he dropped into a sinuous half-crouch, arms spread, eyes locked on her. Ilyvich's laughter floated through the air in a miasma. Thomas couldn’t hurt Varya, but if he managed to feed off her, it could kill him.

Even I could feel the pheromones pouring off of him. If she hadn't been who she was, she would have been helpless in his arms by now. 

My throat was killing me, it hurt to talk. I could feel it swelling, the neck of my t-shirt growing tight. Reversing the grip on my staff, I stepped up to Thomas, and did a Johnny Carson golf swing aimed at his chin, assisted with another murmured force spell.

He blasted backwards again, this time leaving a Thomas-shaped intent in the filthy dry wall. 

"Go," I told her. She nodded and stepped back out, into the first attackers. Brilliant white light flashed through the doorway. Shouts, gurgles, the sounds of men dying. I shut the door again and put my back to it.

"No, you don't get to eat the angel today," I rasped. 

A hint of Thomas' dark grey eyes returned. "Harry," he said. "What do I do?"

"You have to fight them both," I said. Seemed like it was getting a little easier. Only felt like rough grade sandpaper being forced past my tonsils. "You've been fighting one for a long time, and coming out on top. You can do this."

"But I stopped fighting it," he replied, wrapping his arms around himself. "I just couldn't anymore…not after…the naag—"

"I know, but I also know _you_. Just like you know me. Come on, man."

"I don't think I can do it."

"I swear, Thomas, if you don't get a handle on this I'm going to kick your ass sixteen ways from Sunday, and then I'm going to tell everyone we know that I did it. And I'm going to add it's because you were stalking me for my hot bod, you just couldn't keep away."

So I was babbling. It happens when I'm under stress.

"I'll tip off the _Arcane,_ " I continued. The _Midwestern Arcane_ was a tabloid that dealt with the supernatural. "It'll go something like, 'Vampire Obsessed with Wizard Dumped Like a Port-a-Potty Storage Tank". They'll eat that up. Then I'll go on about how you tried to entrap me with our forbidden love child Mouse. I'll do it, I swear I will."

"F-fuck you," he spat, laboriously getting to his feet. Still hugging himself, he took a step towards me, then another. "N-no one…will buy it…"

"Oh yes they will. I'll have witnesses. Molly would love to be interviewed about it. And she's got that rabid imagination. They'll have a field day. 'He was always bugging Harry'," I said, swallowing broken glass and making my voice higher. "'Sending him flowers, begging him for attention, flying into a jealous rage whenever Harry even _looked_ at a girl.' I'll get graphic, and I'll get Bob's help to do it. He's read so many of those romance books that he could come up with an excellent triangle where you're the snubbed lonely-heart."

He was within a few feet now, and the grey was still dominant. Reaching out, I encircled him with one of my arms, pulling him closer. 

"Come on, you can do this," I whispered.

I was completely unprepared when he shanked me. 

A feeling of sudden pressure, a grunt of surprise, and when I looked down I saw his hand, holding onto a rusty piece of unrecognizable metal about the size of a toothbrush. It was thrust into my abdomen, where my duster was parted. 

The grey had disappeared again, the silver and the black were locked in combat once more. I had no idea which demon it was that had stabbed me. They might have even worked together to do it, agreeing to give Thomas enough headway to get close to me, get me to drop my guard, since I stood in both of their way.

It was stupid. I should have known better.

Letting go of the metal, he took a step back, face contorted in a rictus of satisfaction. A couple of inches of the shiv stuck out of me, projecting from my black shirt. He'd shoved it upward, under my ribs, and what was left on my exterior jutted at a downward angle. If it was long enough, that was my liver region. It suddenly became very important to remember when I'd had my last tetanus booster.

The mind is funny that way.

"Die, wizard," his voice was overlaid by another, a bad exorcism movie effect. "Die knowing you did not save him. And I will be here with you, watching every second, watching you expire."

There it was. The pain finally caught up with the reality. It was so sharp and overwhelming my gorge rose. My first instinct was to pull out the intruding blade, but I managed not to. It was plugging the hole, keeping me from leaking anything too important. Instead I worked my hand into my pocket, fumbling around.

"Sorry to tell you, snookums," I croaked. "But if you're gonna be here, then I ain't gonna die."

"I will make certain."

"You are not turning my brother into Legion two point oh," I said, then threw two ampules of holy water at him with all my strength.

They shattered against him, splashing. He paused in shock for the briefest of seconds, then he started screaming.

I had so very much not wanted to do that. The precursor to my last resort.

The White Court demon wasn't strong enough against a fully-fledged member of Hell. If only the fucking thing could see I was on its side. I also knew I was very likely condemning some poor girl to death by injuring Thomas this much. If he survived, he was going to have to feed, voraciously. But this was the only thing I knew to do to help.

The holy water wouldn't hurt the incubus inside him, as it wasn't an infernal demon type. Whole different story for the newest resident in _Maison d'Thomas_. It was as infernal as they came, and the holy water was doing its divine number on it.

But the damage done to the physical body was real to all three of them. Wherever the water touched, scorch marks appeared. The smell of burning flesh filled the room. More than just burning, it looked like his flesh was melting, gobbets of pale skin underlaid with bloody meat turning gelatinous before smoking and crisping black. It was all limned with a faint St. Elmo's Fire, kind of like when you pour whisky over something and set it alight, only silver instead of blue.

He'd flung up his arms to ward off whatever it was I had thrown, and they took the worst of it. Flesh dribbled and dropped off, muscle and tendons dissolving. Some had splashed onto his face, turning it into a Savini mask. Small holes ate into his cheeks, his chin, showing bone, the open hollow of his mouth as he screeched.

Somehow I managed to move forward, pulling out another ampule. Dropping my staff, I grabbed the hair on the back of his head, yanking his head back. Snapping off the top with a jerk of my thumb I upended the contents down his gaping maw.

That stopped him from even being able to scream.

With a shaking hand, I pulled the pendant off my neck, and slammed it against his forehead. I didn’t have any words prepared for this. All I could do was infuse my faith, my belief in magic and the life it came from, that it protected, the rarity and the wonder of it, into it.

He jerked and tap danced beneath my hand, but the holy water had weakened him, and I was able to hang on. 

" _Abstergeo! Ejicio abstergeo! Vade, vade damnatorum macula!"_

To this day I'm not sure why I started shouting those particular pseudo-Latin words, infused with every scrap of will I could muster. They just came out, and my pendant flared into cold blue fire, etching into Thomas' forehead. Just like at the Ukraine Museum, my voice boomed around me, echoing and rebounding as if I were in an amphitheater. I concentrated on the infernal as hard as I could, trying to make sure that the banishment would only affect it, and not the White Court. If I screwed this up, Thomas was just as lost as if I had killed him.

It fought against me, its will pushing out from Thomas, shoving back mine. Resisting being driven out of such an excellent host. But I was terrified, and furious, and magic is fueled by strong emotions. I reached down into that vast reservoir and pumped it through my will. My throat stopped hurting, and I vaguely realized that the sound of my voice alone was causing plaster dust to shake from the ceiling.

His back arched. His mouth stretched open in one long, chilling scream that seemed to go on and on.

Then he went limp, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head, falling bonelessly to the floor.

Hoping against hope that I hadn't just killed him, or left him a vegetable by expelling both his demons, I kneeled next to him with a groan and peeled back an eyelid. 

Dark gray iris with silver around the edges. White sclera. The only black was his dilated pupil. He was breathing. It was labored, but definite. His pulse pounded against my fingertips when I checked. The pentacle had burned a clear, neat shape into his forehead.

Just to be sure it wasn't another sucker ploy, I splashed some more holy water on him. He got wet.

Lara was gonna be pissed. But at least she would get her brother back as the single occupancy he'd been designed for.

"Harry?" Varya's voice called out from the other side of the door.

Oh yeah. Big bad archdemon to deal with. Almost forgot about him. He had some 'splainin' to do.

Picking up my staff, I lurched to the door and hauled it open. Varya stood in the middle of carnage, remorse inscribed into her face. 

I counted eleven bodies before I stopped. None of them showed any signs of turning to goo and evaporating. 

The glow of her silver sword had dimmed, covered in red blood. 

"Harry!" she cried, at my side, pulling my arm around her shoulder. 

"I'm fine," I said, even as I leaned against her. "It's all good."

"It is not fine, and you are not all good," she muttered. "Dmitri will wait for another day. I am getting you and Thomas out of here."

"How do you propose to do that?" I asked, looking out a front-facing window.

People surrounded the building. Dozens of them. There was no getting through it without more wholesale slaughter, much less with an unconscious vampire and injured wizard in the mix.

"I will think of something," she said.

Gunfire erupted from outside. Not fully automatic weapons, the boom of drum-fed combat shotguns.

Surrounding the mob were men and women in military-type garb; urban fatigues in greys and browns, and brown berets. For some reason I noticed none of them had name patches or insignia.

The shotguns erupted in a cavalcade, and the folks surrounding the building got slung backwards as if pulled by ropes. But there was no blood that I could see, no one getting holes blown in them. They toppled like dominos against the orchestrated onslaught. It was over in minutes.

The stomp of boots inside the building. Movement. Shouts of "clear!" Varya leaned me against the wall and put herself in between me and them. I shook out my bracelet.

"Identify yourself!" A strong, female voice rang up the stairs like a clarion.

"I must insist you first," Varya called back.

"Lincoln," the woman responded smartly. "Captain Lincoln. I am here to retrieve Thomas Raith. I was told that there would be a wizard on the premises?"

"That's me," I said hoarsely. "Come on up."

Careful treads on the stairs. A woman, about five foot eight and wearing the same urban fatigues and beret as the ones outside came up, the combat shotgun held across her body. More people lined the stairs behind her. She looked to be late-thirties, early-forties, and had that distinct air of competent command that people get when they've been through some serious shit. Her mocha-brown skin was a little shiny with a light sheen of sweat, but she showed no other evidence of exertion. She also ignored the dead bodies littering the floor of the landing except to watch where to plant her foot.

"I need some proof," I croaked.

"Ms. Raith told me to tell you about a missed opportunity after the two of you flew through the air with the greatest of ease in your own personal bubble."

It was a reference to the time I had saved us both from a pretty massive explosion by wrapping us in my shield. We'd shot out of a tunnel like a cannonball. The missed opportunity was me threatening her life and her entire clan after she'd tried to eat me in the manner that White Courts ate people. There had been no one else around, and I was positive she would never have told anyone about it. I had managed to royally piss her off that night.

It's a thing. I'm good at it.

"Good 'nuff," I squawked, pointing at the doorway to the room Thomas was in. "He's in there. Tell Lara that the wounds are from holy water I poured on him. Another demon was put inside him, and he needed some help getting it out."

She gave a short nod to two men behind her and they hurried into the room, carrying long poles that I knew were part of a combat stretcher.

"I was supposed to retrieve him unharmed," Lincoln said. "If he was injured I was to remain and execute the perpetrator." She took a step closer, hands tightening on the shotgun. Varya neatly interposed herself between us, sword raised.

"Do not," she said softly. It was almost a plea. "I wish to kill no more mortals this day."

Lincoln stared at her for a long moment.

"You swear that you had no other choice, Wizard Dresden?" Lincoln asked, apparently deciding that Varya was capable of ruining her whole day.

"None. Believe me. I tried everything else I could think of."

"It will have to do. I will inform Ms. Raith. We have secured the area, you are free to leave."

"Yeah, about that. What is in those shotguns?" I asked curiously, reaching out an arm. Varya immediately ducked under it. My torso was on fire, accompanied by a maniac on a tom-tom thudding out an agonizing beat in time with my pulse. I could feel it all the way down to my ankles.

"Beanbag rounds," Lincoln replied. "Ms. Raith wanted no casualties." She looked around. "On our part, anyway."

"Good thinking."

The two men came out of the room with Thomas lying motionless on the stretcher. There was a neck brace holding his head immobile, and he was securely strapped down. The gaping holes in his flesh had been covered with bandages.

"He's taken care of," Lincoln said as the two men expertly maneuvered the stretcher down the stairs. "You look like you could use a little first aid yourself," she said to me.

I flipped a hand at her. "It's only a flesh wound," I replied in a pretty awful British accent. That made her give a quick flash of grin. 

The last thing I wanted was for Lara Raith to get my blood, tissue, and who knew what else would come spilling out of me when the shiv was removed.

"I have to report in, but we'll be sticking around for a few more minutes if you change your mind. Want me to see if I can do something about these?" She nudged a corpse with the toe of her boot.

"If I say yes," Varya said before I could answer, "would I be able to provide for a proper cremation for them?"

"I suppose so," Lincoln shrugged. "I'd have to ask first, of course."

"Of course," Varya replied. "I would appreciate it if you would."

"It's your dime." She looked around again. "A lot of your dimes."

"It is the minimum I can do."

Lincoln gave us each a nod and went back downstairs with the rest of her men. I watched out the window as a military hum-vee pulled up, urban paint job, again with no insignia. Thomas was slid in through the back doors. A woman got out of the front seat, and a man took her place. Someone else handed Lincoln one of those radios that looked like an oversized phone handset. She spoke into it briefly then looked up at me, giving me a thumbs up.

"She said it's a go," I told Varya, who was still on guard. "Um…where's Ilybitch? He's being awful quiet."

"He's watching," she said quietly. "He cannot use these people, and he wanted to delay his and my battle. He will bide his time and come after you when I am not around."

"I guess you'd better stick in Chicago for a while then," I said lightly. She just responded with that sad smile of hers.

"Come," she said, getting up under my arm again. "Let us return to your apartment."

My apartment. Not home anymore.

  


 


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varya and Harry desperately fight off Ilyvich, Harry desperately wounded, and Varya trying to keep Ilyvich off him long enough to do what Harry does best; pull something out of his ass to save the day.

# Chapter Thirty-Four

Every step was agony, and I kept trying to cough, adjust whatever it was that Thomas had broken or knocked loose in my throat. That pain came and went. The hole in my gut was a constant. While I didn't exactly relish it, it wasn't incapacitating, either. After being shot, flambéed, sliced, diced, skewered, and electrocuted, I had learned how to 'manage pain', as they put it now. One day I hoped to be promoted from manager to vice president.

Slowly we hobbled our way into the parking lot, Varya as solid as a slab of granite next to me as I stumbled down stairs and over the door saddle. One of the medics stopped us, standing in front of us and staring at my neck.

On reflex he reached out to touch me but Varya's hand planted against his chest-piece stopped him cold.

"You will inform me of what you wish to do before attempting it," she said quietly, but with a definite promise of bad things should he continue. He paled a bit, but answered readily enough.

"He looks like he might have a hyoid displacement or fracture," he said. "I might be able to adjust it enough to relieve his discomfort until he can get to a hospital."

Varya looked at me in askance, and I nodded. The medic whipped out a pen light and had me open my mouth. It flickered and died the instant he tried to use it. He stared at it in surprise, giving it a shake and clicking several times.

"Let it go, kid," I croaked. "It's deceased."

"You're the wizard," he said, somewhat wide-eyed. He worked for a mercenary unit hired by a vampire and he was weirded out by me. Of course he was.

"Yup, and I have four good meals every day," I said. Blank stare. Kid wasn't a Pratchett fan. Didn't anybody _read_ anymore?

"Proceed," Varya ordered him. "It is not my intention to keep him here for the remainder of the day."

"Yes, ma'am," the kid said quickly, stripping off his gloves and carefully touching my throat with probing fingers. He gave a little push, and the semi-gagging compulsion to cough vanished. I also about raised up on my tippy-toes from sudden pain, but it faded quickly. "That should hold you over for a bit."

"Thanks," I said. Varya just gave him a nod, obviously impatient and began helping me wend my way through the stirring thralls the mercs had zip-tied and the mercs themselves. The ground was littered with small black squares, edged with red, maybe two inches each side. I assumed those were the bean bag rounds Lincoln had mentioned. Judging from the groans rising around me, I assume they were not pleasant to get walloped with. But they weren't lethal. Lara was no fool. Mercs staging a killing spree in Chicago would be the equivalent of a General Custer.

We made it past the troops to where we had stashed Thomas' Hummer. My spell hadn't been enough. In the shed were the skeletal remains of what once had been a high performance machine. I winced. When Thomas recovered he was not going to be best pleased.

However, crammed up under one of the doors of the shed, which had been completely removed, I saw a familiar sheet. I listed that way and Varya followed my lead. 

"Can you pick that up?"

After making sure I'd be able to remain upright on my own for the thirty seconds the action would take her, she leaned over and pulled it out. How they had missed this was a mystery, but they had.

"Is this what I believe it to be?" she asked.

"Sorry to say it is," I told her, leaning on my staff.

Her lips pursed in brief aggravation, but she just tucked it under her arm and got back under mine.

"Head up the street, to Eight-First, then take a right. I'm betting we'll find Murphy's cordon up the way."

With extra care, she helped me down the street. We made it to the intersection and the turn. Past it. I was counting footsteps at this point. Each addition a minor triumph. No matter how carefully I tried to step, it was a jolt slamming up my leg to my torso. 

"Do you wish for me to carry you?" she asked.

"No," I gritted. "Leave me at least some of my dignity, will you, woman?"

At least the pain was helping me stave off the inevitable exhaustion. Adrenalin was a terrific counter to the fatigue I knew was coming. I had expended a _lot_ of energy on the banishing spell, and I had done one last night as well. While I'd gotten some sleep, it hadn’t been much, I had come out today at half power. The superhuman juice flowing through my veins was keeping me from feeling how close to empty I was.

That was a not good point as I felt a doorway to the Nevernever opening up practically on top of us. I raised my wrist, trying to infuse it with my will and managed to get a flickering half dome of light in between us and the opening before Ilyvich flew out of it and slammed into us both. Part of me had time to appreciate the clever tactic. Varya would never feel him coming through the Nevernever.

He'd been traveling at some speed, and my shield only absorbed so much of it. How had he known exactly where to come out? And when? Neither of us had anything—

The shiv. Had to be. It wasn't a random piece of junk.

The door snapped shut immediately behind him as we went sprawling. I crashed into the condemned brownstone to our right, my shoulder and face getting up close and personal with the masonry. I bounced off it, desperately rolling to my feet.

All semblance of the urbane gentleman was gone. Flat black eyes stared hatred at me, rimmed with bloody red. Infernal power radiated off him in waves. It was an oily, uncomfortable heat coating every inch of exposed skin. In his hand was that writhing black sword, small tendrils of shadow slithering off of it here and there, extending and retracting like a slug's eyestalks. 

He raised it over me, when Varya tackled him to the ground, away from me. She hit him so hard they rolled for ten feet, but he was on top, straddling her chest, when they stopped. The sword went immediately to her throat. The revulsion on her face as it neared was evident, but she didn't panic. Twisting her hips, she slid her left arm beneath his right knee and managed to pop him off of her, springing to her feet, silver sword blazing to life.

"Harry!" 

"I'm okay!" I called back, then started coughing again.

I wasn't, though. Not really. The impact with the building had managed to push the shiv an inch or so deeper, and when I reached for my reserves it was trying to grab smoke. Big time fire magic, two banishment spells, and all the other bits I'd been tossing around had definitely caught up to me. I tried to take a step towards her and ended up clinging to my staff as the world wobbled around me.

The two swords clashed in a weird, muted clang, not the striking ring one would expect. Black sparks oozed from his blade, sparkling silver showered from hers. This was not fencing, this was not choreographed swordplay. This was the deadly earnest of two masters trying their best to kill each other. Even Michael hadn't matched the ferocity and skill taking place in front of me.

"Do what you must!" she shouted. "Now! Or he will never stop!"

And all this time we'd been worried about her having to kill me.

She was telling me to throw whatever I needed to at Ilyvich, even if it meant destroying her. While I couldn't kill him, I could show him that even as battered, beaten, and broken as I was, I was still a force to be reckoned with. It would show him that it would be best to cut his losses and leave Chicago, my family, and my friends well enough alone. I just had to risk her life to do it.

He made a feint for her eyes and she jerked back. He used the opportunity to dart towards me but she was too fast for him, intercepting him once more and forcing him to regard her as the bigger threat. A dozen wounds already laced her skin, blood flying in red droplets with the speed of her movements.

She was buying me time with that blood. I had to think of something so it wouldn't be wasted.

But I had nothing I could fling in there without killing her. 

Dodging a lightning fast strike, she ducked under it and her sword lashed out, through his ankle and ripping out the back. She'd missed the joint but the hamstring was gone. Vile words dripped from his lips. While I couldn't understand what any of them meant, the meaning behind them was crystal clear.

Death and damnation for her and me.

With an obscenity of my own I slammed the butt of my staff onto the cement of the sidewalk and began pulling in. Not heat. Not this time. Just energy. Weeds growing through the cracks of the sidewalk shriveled and died, flies hovering around piles of refuse fell by the score. My pulling touched the two locked in combat, and I jerked it away. 

I was getting the power I needed. Two problems presented themselves. One, would I be able to survive it with my magical powers intact, and two, I still had no idea what I was going to do with it.

But she was giving me something I rarely had in a fight; time. Time to figure out what I was going to do.

She evaded in the wrong direction and he caught her with a vicious backhand that sent her spinning. He took the opportunity to look at me and smile.

" _Fuego,"_ he sneered. He didn't need to talk to summon fire, he was a freaking demon. He did that only to add salt to the wound.

Hellfire engulfed me. 

Varya shrieked and came at him with a two handed swing that would have cut him in two if it had landed. It didn't but it disrupted his concentration, so the flames died away. I'd only been caught in a wash that had lasted a second or two.

That had been long enough to do some pretty uncool things. My duster had protected me once again from the worst of it, but my hair went up like a really boring roman candle, and all the moisture was instantaneously sucked out of my skin. It felt dry, tight, and brittle. I could feel the skin on my lips splitting open. It had also superheated the shiv, searing the puncture wound and the several inches of puncture wound inside me. The worst of it was the instant oxygen deprivation. Instinctively I had inhaled, and managed to suck in a big gout of flame into my lungs. It wasn't enough to kill me, but breathing became a lot more difficult.

It also interrupted my draw of energy. Without me concentrating, it was lost, dispersed into the air like it never was. It probably had also protected me a little, hellfire not being normal fire, and therefore being a tad bit deflectable by raw magical power.

I felt that power pour out of me, wasted, and slid to my knees, gripping my staff. It was all I could do just to remain relatively upright.

Varya changed her tactics, going purely on offensive, using her sword and her body to force him away from me, down the street. She received a half dozen more wounds, but grimly she pressed him back. 

She was trusting me to come up with something to save myself.

Grimly, I started pulling again, mouth agape, breath coming in rattling gasps. Ironically, it was my previously burned hand that managed to keep me sticking to my staff, the leather glove I wore to hide it protecting it from the flames. My other hand slid down on the wood, dry as cotton.

Ilyvich was being driven back from me step by step, Varya unrelenting in a furious tide of blows, not giving him time to come up with another sucker punch at me. She was paying for it, though, in spades. She looked like she'd gone ten rounds with Edward Scissorhands and lost.

As they danced, speed and agility unmatched by anything human, and a lot of nonhumans I'd encountered, I finally figured out what I would do. I'd only get one shot, Varya would have to execute perfectly, and I absolutely could not miss. 

Once again I filled myself to bursting, only this time it didn't feel quite so figurative. My skin strained against containing the energy, muscles quivered, bones creaked. Then I used it and delved down, past asphalt and rebar, into the earth below.

Taking a breath through razor wire and liquid concrete, I shouted, "Fizzle!"

Without hesitation she planted one foot and launched herself backwards, away from Ilyvich.

" _Gravitus!"_

For a tenth of a second everything floated, including me. I was borrowing gravity from a roughly two-hundred foot radius. Rocks, trash, leaves, anything that wasn't significantly heavy or bolted down lifted at least an inch or two off the ground.

Varya had done exactly what she was supposed to do. There was no way she could have known what I was going to do, but she had instantly understood that I wanted her pushing away, in the air, away from Ilyvich. The momentum she'd generated carried through the moment of seeming weightlessness, continuing her path away from him.

He hung, suspended, confusion flashing across his features.

It didn't last long.

The second part of the spell, what I had been borrowing all that gravity for, hit him, concentrated in a roughly eighteen inch diameter circle beneath his feet.

Demon or not, his body was once human, and it felt the effect. It was immediate, gratifying, and really disgusting to listen to. I'd used this once on a Black Court vampire with similar satisfying results.

Bones shattered, instantly crushed by the pull. It happened so quickly there's really no description for the process. The end result, however, was a different story. All that remained was a puddle of blood, flesh, and splintered bone. 

As I'd released the magic, forcing my will to shape it, using soulfire in a desperate bid to make it stronger and do what I so desperately needed it to do, I felt a familiar snap inside me, and my magical senses dulled to nonexistence. 

Temporary. Totally temporary. Yeah. Temporary, like when it happened before.

Gravity had returned to normal once we had the IHOP demon special on the pavement, and Varya wasted no time, raising her sword high overhead and sprinting towards it. 

And that fucking bastard managed to open a goddman tear to the Nevernever _beneath_ him, so that he just plopped right on through. All that remained of him were the remains of a radial blood spray, an empty two foot circle in the center. Fucking demons. 

I tried to swear, but the only result was a bout of extremely painful coughing.

My vision swam, and I fell to one side. As hurt as she was, Varya was still fast enough to catch me. Soft arms surrounded me.

Why was she crying? We'd won, right? Ilyvich was gone, and certainly wasn't going to be coming back here again. 

"S'okay, Varya," I mumbled, head pillowed on her lap. All I could see was a black tunnel with her face at the end of it. She was so beautiful. "We did it. S'okay."

"Hush, Harry," she said, a hitch in her chest. "Hush now. Yes. We did it. You are safe."

Tried to raise my hand, stroke her cheek, tell her I'd be fine, we'd both be fine. My arm didn’t want to work. That was funny, it had been working just fine not so long ago. Still, she was telling me all was well, and I could take a rest. Which was good. I was exhausted.

The last thing I felt before the hungry hands of darkness claimed me was the salt of the tears wetting her lips making the cuts on my mouth burn for the briefest of moments.

" _Nekhay miy batʹko blaoslovyt vas i trymaty vas,_ Harry Dresden. _"_

  


 


	35. Chapter Thirty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilyvich is defeated, and now Harry gets to take a step back and and bask in the victory.
> 
> Oh, wait. This is Harry Dresden we're talking about.

# Chapter Thirty-Five

"…to God, Harry Dresden, if you don't wake up I'm going to kill you before you can!"

"What?" I demanded, startling awake and sitting straight up. My head bashed into something hard, but why was my yowl of pain echoed in stereo?

My sight finally reconnected and I stared around. I was flat on a sidewalk, Murphy kneeling next to me. Apparently my forehead had connected with hers at some speed when I'd sat up. I could tell by the way she had one clapped over it and was spewing profanity laced with my name.

Hell's bells, that had hurt. We'd both end up with a nice sized goose egg, I was sure.

Waitaminute…

Blinking, I stared down at myself. The part of my t-shirt uncovered by my duster was scorched and black, and the soles of my work boots had been melted into a gummy mess, the shoelaces completely gone. But other than that, and the monstrous headache I had just managed to give myself, I was fine.

Hadn't I been…dying a little?

I looked around wildly. Police officers and other uniforms were everywhere. Fire department, EMTs, and a few city officials for a dash of flavor. No tall, cool blonde in a sliced up jacket anywhere.

"Murph, where's Varya?" I asked urgently.

"Who?" she asked. I planted a hand beneath me and started to get up.

"Varya," I said. "Blonde goddess. Big shiny sword. She was with me."

"Harry," she said, her hand firmly on my chest, keeping me from rising. "You were alone when we got here. We heard some commotion and came to investigate. About two blocks over there's a tenement with blood all over the second floor, foot prints like the Battle for Iwo Jima took place, but no bodies. Then we found you. _Asleep_ on the sidewalk."

"Asleep?" I pawed at my stomach. The shiv was gone. The only evidence it had been there was a burned hole in my shirt. No puncture wound. No wounds anywhere. Even my hair had grown back.

It felt shorter, though.

I took a deep breath. It was normal. No pain, either from my throat or my lungs. No coughing. Experimentally, I tried to stretch out my senses. It worked, even though all I could feel was the faintest of residues from the two openings to the Nevernever. 

I remembered the salty taste of that last, soft kiss. Her tears. She'd used them to heal me before leaving. 

The fatigue was still there, that bone-deep weariness I got after using insane amounts of magic, but it was kept back by the strength of sudden fear.

"I'm fine, Murph. Let me up."

"Harry, I really want you to get checked out first."

"Murph, let me _up_."

Wordlessly she lifted her hand and I sprang to my feet, tearing through the crowd. I got more than one aggravated look, but I didn't care as I wriggled and slithered my way through. After the "bombing" at the Ukraine Museum, Chicago was using this as a show of force to show the citizens that their Streets Were Safe. All that was missing was a brass band.

Murphy stayed in my shadow, dogging my every step. 

No Varya. She was gone.

I stopped and just stood there for a minute, staff dangling from my fingers.

"Did you mean Varya Nadeanenko?" Murphy asked, putting her hand on my arm.

"Yeah," I said distractedly. "Maybe she went home. Or maybe she followed Thomas. Or maybe—"

"We found this," she said, holding out a sheet-wrapped object. "It was right next to you. It's the painting I'd recovered off Ashland, near the car bomb."

Reaching out I took it from her, sliding back the sheet. There were a few chips out of the lacquer, but otherwise it was whole and intact. Varya's laughing, delighted face shone in the sunlight.

Murphy looked over my arm. She was a tiny thing. No way she could have looked over my shoulder like Varya did.

"It's beautiful," she murmured.

"Yeah," I said, jerking the sheet back over it. "It is."

She'd healed me. She'd healed me and then she'd left before I could return the favor. I understood why she did it. If she sucked at goodbyes as much as I did, and there was a distinct possibility that was so, her leaving before I woke up was…for the best.

Murphy sensed now was not the time to inform me that one Varya Nadeanenko was wanted as a person of interest regarding the bombing of her rental vehicle. I was sure I'd be grateful for that at some point in time.

Now there was just the hole.

Unfortunately I was very familiar with the hole. The hole was the piece inside me that got punched out when yet another love of mine came crashing down around my ears. This time, though, I'd known it was coming. Been able to prepare for it. 

It didn't help a single bit.

  


 


	36. Chapter Thirty-Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's more like an epilogue, really...

# Chapter Thirty-Six

Life returned to normal. 

Whatever that meant.

Molly came home, a little tanner, and a lot more mosquito bitten. Apparently she still had issues with her veils fooling the little bloodsuckers. I'd told her to practice while she'd been out there. She brought me a string of the fish they'd caught. I told her to work up a spell that would gut and descale them, only half joking. I could do it, due to the country-boy style training I'd gotten from my grandfather, but it was not something I ever enjoyed. 

Molly and I picked up where we'd left off. It was more than obvious she could tell something was up, as much as I tried to act as I always had. She didn't ask, just shooting me constant sidelong glances, the curiosity eating her alive. I did not relieve it.

Isn't that what Varya and I had done? Pretended nothing was wrong? She'd been better at it than I was.

Murphy didn't ask any more questions, either. She'd just driven me home, trying to make sure I wasn't about to slip into one of those bleak bouts of despair that sometimes gripped me. She fussed over Mouse. Fussed over Mister. Fussed over me, until I all but threw her out, laughing and promising to call her the next day. I think that reassured her that I would be fine.

The bombing of the National Ukrainian Museum of Chicago stayed in the news for a while, along with the mobilization of the city's forces the next day in response to a supposed terrorist threat in the South Side. Three Russian nationalist groups took credit. A Ms. Varya Nadeanenko was believed to have been the only casualty of a new and particularly brutal type of car bomb that the Department of Homeland Security promised to investigate thoroughly.

I wished them luck in their endeavors.

The artistic community was rocked by sudden death after sudden death of artists, six in a month. All from different causes, the only thing in common was their medium; precious and semi-precious metals and stones. It became rumored that the Chicago art scene was cursed. Then reports of other deaths from Toronto, Pittsburgh, and several other cities. Investigations were launched into possibly contaminated metals or radioactive stones. As soon as it became yesterday's news, the investigation was quietly filed under unsolved.

House Raith was once again not taking my calls. The first thing I was told was a sizeable sum had been sent to cover the services and cremations of the people killed at the tenement. The second thing I was told was Thomas had fully recovered—except for his memory. Not uncommon in victims of possession or mind control. Theories why ranged from the mind blocking it out as a self-defense mechanism or some sort of damage done to the relevant part of the brain. Sometimes the victim regained the memories, sometimes they didn't. 

Thomas didn't remember anything after last Thursday. Including his tiff with Lara and his motivation for reaching out to me. He and I were back where we had started after the naagloshii. 

Once I learned that I just went with it, didn't bother trying to force it. He wouldn't have understood if I had. It was strongly intimated to me that there were those in House Raith that were not happy about me dragging him into a position to be possessed and it would be healthy for me not to try and make contact for a while. Thomas would not be told about what happened. Lara would come up with some convincing lie to explain away the missing days. 

I did, however, send him the lacquer of Varya as a get well gift. He'd liked it. And I wasn't sure if I'd be able to handle seeing it for a long, long time.

I retrieved the _Blue Beetle_ from Mike with some of the retainer Varya had paid me. It was, as ever, in perfect condition. Well, it ran perfectly, anyway. It also allowed me to get the romance books, both traditional and graphic novel, and take Bob to see _Nine and a Half Weeks._

He didn't shut up about food fetishes for days.

After much deliberation some of the money also went towards a I'm Sorry For Bringing A Fallen Angel Into Your Home Thanks For Not Killing Me fruit basket and flower bouquet for the Carpenters. I looked for a preprinted card, but they were fresh out, so I just scribbled something and sent it on its way. Hell's bells, I didn't know what else to send, okay? A Hallmark card just didn't seem like enough.

My dignity was harvested by Puck in ample amounts to repay his assistance with the custom modified fizzlekerblams. I can only imagine what I looked like flailing and stomping in a mockery of the beat thumping from the screen's speakers. I am positive, however, that if there had been a reasonably compassionate passer-by they would have called emergency services for the poor man having a seizure. How the fae had managed to get a working game console in the Nevernever is still beyond me, but he'd gotten what he'd wanted and seemed content for it.

Briefly I considered asking for his help against the Black Council, but thought better of it. The price for that was likely to be a hell of a lot more than me looking silly for a few hours.

The clothing Varya had left behind had gotten stowed away in my lab, stuffed into a closet behind some boxes. There wasn't much. All of her worldly belongings. It still smelled like alpine flowers. I'd described the smell to the florist where I'd ordered Michael's fruit basket and she told me it sounded like edelweiss. The _Sound of Music_ flower. No, I didn't start humming it endlessly.

The hole was there. But it wasn't like before, a shocking, sudden gulf yawning inside me. I had indeed been prepared for it. But I think the biggest part of it was she was okay, and she still loved me. She hadn't been turned into some horrific monster, or brain whammied into thinking she'd loved me, or tortured or any of that. 

What had happened to us was, when you got right down to it, pretty simple. We'd tried. Hard. Outside forces made it not happen. We put on our adult trousers and got on with what we needed to do. Sure there was an underlying bitterness, but it was softened a great deal by knowing that what happened to us was not, no matter how my martyr complex tried, my fault. It wasn't hers, either. 

Like she'd said. It was who we are.

I had Chicago, the Wardens, the Red Court, the Black Council. She had Ilyvich. There was always "maybe someday", but neither of us would ignore someone in front of us for it, either.

And there was the little memory I'd preserved. The normal, just a guy just a girl morning. We'd had that. It had been real. I'd had no idea how much of a comfort I would find that moment of peace we'd cobbled together somehow. 

Which was good. You never knew what was going to happen in the life of a private investigator who happened to be a wizard. It paid to recognize the good moments, and stubbornly hang onto them with everything you had.

Hell's bells, that was good advice for anyone, not just magical type gumshoes.

I should add philosopher to my business card.


End file.
